Everyday Occurrences
by AZ-woodbomb
Summary: Gotham is the place for you.
1. The Nature of Nurturing

"Mommy, is Christmas like a bigger Halloween?"

"No, sweetie."

"Then how come there's a witch in the sky?"

Overhead Roxy Rocket soars cackling through the skies.

"Because we live in Gotham, sweetie."

* * *

"Mommy, there's a monster under my bed!"

"What does it look like?"

"It's raggedy and has straw all over."

Her shoulders slump and her breath quickens.

"Dr. Crane, we've talked about this."

The room is quiet. She sighs.

"Dr. Crane?"

The silence stretches on. Then suddenly there comes a deathly whisper from underneath the bed.

"_I'd prefer it if you called me Scarecrow_."

"Okay, Scarecrow, will you please come out?"

A pair of thin hands crawl out from under the bed and claw at the floor. Slowly a spindly scarecrow emerges, its eyes darting around the room.

"_I'm not afraid of anything. Just-"_

"Of cour -"

"_Just doing some research."_

"And it's very important, I'm aware. But it's late and we would like to get some sleep."

"_I'm the god of fear. I am not afraid of Batman."_

"Yes, yes. Good night. Say good night, sweetie."

"Good night, scary god!"

He slides open the window and puts one leg through. He turns around and waves stiffly, the wind tussling his ragged clothes. The little girl stares at him with frightened eyes.

"Do you think Batman is coming after me?"

He stares back.

"_No, this room is safe. I looked under the bed and everything._"

Then he drops down and sets off running through the snow laden streets.

* * *

"Mommy, why is a robotic clown spanking the mayor?"

She hesitates, pondering the scene on the steps of city hall.

"For no real reason, I think."

"Did he do something bad?"

"Probably."

The little girl tugs on her sleeve.

"Mommy, why is that clown wearing Santa's hat?"

"Because he's in a festive mood."

"Can I get one of those?"

Harley Quinn springs over them on a pogo stick, chucking dynamite at an approaching Batmobile.

"No."

* * *

"Mommy, I like lizards!"

"That's…sweet?"

"I want a lizard pet!"

"Sweetness level dropping."

"I want that lizard!"

The little girl points at Killer Croc, who's sitting on a wooden bench and eating from a huge bowl of ice cream.

"And we've reached sour."

Croc looks up from his treat with an awkward look.

"**What are you lookin at?**"

"No, it's- Sorry to disturb you. We'll just be going now."

"**It's not what it looks like! These are frozen…rocks. Sprinkled with tiger teeth. And I'm- I'm eating them."**

She feigns awe.

"Wow. Well, I guess we should get going, then."

Croc stands up, tucks the bowl under his arm and trudges away.

"**Don't judge me.**"

The bench comes undone.

* * *

"Mommy, what happened to the house?"

"I wish I knew."

They walk up to the door. Suddenly a woman's face pops into view, peering down from the roof.

"Do you live here?"

"Um. Yes?"

"I made some changes."

She climbs down from the roof and through an open window. Soon she opens the door and lets them into their own house.

"Welcome to your new and improved home."

A bouquet of flowers grows from her palm.

"Here. A gift."

"Thank you."

"I took out all the lightbulbs. Now you have glowing moss. Rub these leaves gently to turn them off."

She stares expectantly, but receives no response.

"In the backyard there's a plant that eats all trash you can't recycle. The floor is now alive and cleans itself. I also made hammocks."

She points to the hammocks. Silence reigns.

"You don't like hammocks?"

"No, they're fine, it's just-"

The hammocks fall to the floor and slither away.

"I'm trying to save the world, one random house at a time."

"I…I see."

The little girl starts braiding the leaf-clad woman's hair.

"I also destroyed your car."

"What? No."

"Yes."

"Please no."

"Now you can travel in a slithering leaf vehicle. I call it the Green Octospeedster. No, wait. No, I have yet to name it."

"How would I even-"

"There's a manual growing under the seat."

"But I'd get arrested driving that."

"I wrapped a few people around my finger yesterday. They legalized it."

"Oh."

The house looks clean, very organic.

"Well, I suppose I should thank you."

"That won't be necessary. All I need is love."

The green woman hugs her. She hugs back after just a little while.

"Fight the power."

"I-I'll try."

The woman breaks off the hug, looking refreshed. Suddenly her head is yanked back. The little girl laughs happily.

"Darling, don't climb up the nice lady's hair."

"Please, it is no matter. I am used to all sorts of critters crawling over me. I am very much in touch with nature."

"Oh."

As if to back up her claims, a snake pokes its head out and slides down onto her forehead. Her eyes rise to assess the situation.

"Oops."

She pushes it back into the 'do.

"Call if you need any help."

"Oh, I'm afraid I don't have your number."

"Just gently say my name three times to the ivy over there."

With that the woman walks gracefully outside, blowing a kiss as a final farewell.

* * *

"Mommy, do penguins like bread?"

She throws a few more crumbs into the pond and watches happily as the ducks eat their fill.

"I don't think so."

"I'm gonna find out."

"Okay then."

She throws more crumbs.

"Sweetie, you have to throw it into the- Sweetie, what do you think you're you doing?"

"Research. I'm gonna talk to Scarecrow about it. He'll think I'm smart."

The little girl throws another piece of bread at the portly man standing beside them.

"No, stop right now. Apologize."

The man gnaws his cigarette holder.

"Harumph. Scarecrow, eh?"

He raises his umbrella and takes to the sky. The little girl shouts after him with a hurt voice.

"Penguins can't fly!"

Her mother shrugs her shoulders.

"Maybe emperor penguins can?"

The little girl shakes her head.

"Penguins can't fly. The book said so."

"I guess they've evolved since they wrote that book."

The girl stares awestruck at the diminishing figure in the sky, his regal winter coat flapping magnificently in the wind.

* * *

"Mommy, why is that man running?"

"Maybe he left the oven on."

"Mister, why are you running?"

The man stops and points down the street.

"Because that monster is after me."

His ghastly pursuer, a petite girl in black with pointy ears, appears.

"Aaaah! What's wrong with her mouth, mister?"

"It's sown shut to scare her enemies."

"Who's her enemy?"

"Anyone who's scared of mute murdering machines."

"I'm scared, mister!"

The girl catches up.

"Then you should run, I'll hold her off," he says as he starts running again.

The little girl stares as he runs in circles around a parked car, keeping the monster at bay.

"You're a hero, mister!"

He gives her a thumbs-up. His demonic pursuer jumps on top of the car.

"Wait! There's an order to these things! You can't just punch me!"

She punches him and he bowls over. The little girl starts running towards them.

"Oh, no! Mister!"

He stares up at his vanquisher and chuckles.

"I congratulate you on stopping me. But you didn't solve the riddles."

The merciless foe ties him up at an astounding speed.

"That means my men are robbing this city blind as we speak."

She steps back and looks at him ponderingly.

"Are you even listening?"

She hefts him into the air and flings him across her shoulder.

"Put me down, you brute!"

"Mister!"

He meets the terrified eyes of the little girl and winks.

"Don't worry. It's all part of my fiendishly intelligent plan."

The little girl goes slack-jawed.

"Wow. You must be smart."

He smirks mightily.

"Heh, yeah. Smarter than you."

"Nuh-uh."

He raises his head and stares at the crowd of onlookers.

"Did you get that? I'm smarter than you! All of you!"

He is bodily carried out of sight.

"Mommy, guess what I'm going to be when I grow up!"

"Please don't be him."

"I wanna work at Arkham, just like you! That way I can be with our friends all the time!"

* * *

Joan Leland jerks awake. She looks around dazedly and rubs her eyes. She stares tiredly at the photo of her cousin and her family. Maybe not having children of her own isn't such a bad thing. She groans as she wipes a speck of drool from the open file on her desk. Suddenly the door to her office flies open and slams into the wall. She winces and looks at the intruder.

"It's Tetch! He's taken control of D-wing!"

She tries to shake herself awake.

"How bad is it?"

"He's demanding a deck of cards!"


	2. Lovable Liberties

"Mommy, you gotta vote for him!"

"For who?"

"The eyebrow man!"

Her jaw falls as she catches sight of what her son is watching. Victor Zsasz and his otherworldly eyebrows stand solemnly in front of the camera, the former with a winning smile on his face.

"Hello. Let me introduce to you some of my revolutionary ideas on healthcare."

"Oh, good god."

A line on the bottom of the screen reads: Vote American. Vote Zsasz for mayor.

She turns it off and mechanically dials 911.

* * *

The line of dancers kick their feet out to raucous applause from the audience. There is something off, however. One of the dancers seems awfully big. The suit looks like it could rip at the slightest movement. Under the extravagant top hat he is wearing a luchador mask. He is very nimble for his size.

"No, no, no," she mutters as she looks for the ticket.

The dancers break up and the big man takes the stage as the music changes.

"Let's go chasing rainbows in the skyyyyyy."

She looks around the audience. No one seems particularly troubled. Her son smiles up at her.

"It's myyy invitation! Let's all take a trip on my ecstasyyyyy!"

Looking down, she sees the title on the ticket reads: "El corazón fuerte de Bane." There is a large photo of a wistfully smiling Bane on the front.

"I'm mister bad guuuuuy! Yes, I'm everybody's mister bad guuuuuy!"

"Oh." Her eyes rove between the singer and the flyer.

"Can't you see, I'm señor Baaaaaane?"

"Woaoah, spread your wings and fly away with meeee!"

Her heart skips a few beats as she tries to decide how she feels. On stage, Bane puts his hands over his heart.

"Your big daddy's got no place to staaaay! Bad communication! I feel like the president of the USAAAAAA."

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"Can't you see, this is my destinyyyy! Spread your wings and fly away with meeee!"

He is awfully good, she must admit.

"I'm Mr. Bad Guy, they're all afraid of me! I can ruin people's lives, yeah, Mr. Bad Guy, they're all afraid of me! It's the only way to be! That's my destinyyyyyy, yeah! Mr. Bad Guy, Mr. Bad Guy!"

His voice goes into glorious falsetto.

"Bad Guyyyyyy!"

She feels herself being pulled into the magnificent show despite herself. The song finishes and there is silence in the hall. Suddenly Bane breaks it, in an obscenely shrill voice.

"OW!"

The giant is absurdly swift, moving in a manner that should simply be impossible for a man his size.

"As he came into the window, it was the sound of a crescendo."

Time passes in a non-linear fashion as she tries to wrap her mind around what is happening.

"Annie, are you okay? So Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?"

Suddenly, without warning, Bane is moonwalking.

"You been hit by, you been hit by- A smooth criminal!"

She feels the blow. In a few delirious moments, it is over. Bane tries to catch his breath.

"So right now, right now we're gonna slow things down a little."

He starts gently swaying and his voice changes timbre. He looks up with a gently sorrowful look.

"Besame…Besame mucho. Como si fuera esta noche…la última vez."

At the end of it, there is not a dry eye in the hall. He bows, wipes the eyes of his mask.

"Now please, let's give a round of applause for a very special guest. Stand up, please. You know who you are, come on."

There is quiet confusion in the audience. Bane looks over the rows of people, crestfallen.

"But…but he promised he would be here."

Suddenly her son stands up on his seat and claps frantically, screaming for more in French. Bane blushes and regains his composure. He clicks his fingers and the hall is filled with belly dancing music. He rips off his shirt and begins moving hypnotically. Obscene muscles ripple in time with the sensual swaying of his hips. Her jaw slackens and her vision turns hazy.

* * *

There is a heavy knock on the door. She opens it and is met with the sight of a huge suit of cryogenic armor, its occupant's red visors staring down at her. A cold, robotic voice comes from the suit.

"Good afternoon. I am here to…fix the plumbing."

She leans on the doorpost and smiles, twirling a strand of her hair.

"Oh, of course. Come inside."

* * *

"Mommy, I want cocoa."

"Sure, sweetie."

She opens the can of cocoa, but there is no cocoa to be found. Instead there are only tea leaves, and sitting on top of them is a familiar figure, surrounded with smoke. He takes another deep drag of his hookah and waves lazily at her. She blinks.

"Tetch? How are you in my cocoa? And why?"

"Rub the container."

Seeing no other particularly sane alternative, she does just that. Suddenly the Hatter grows in size and rises out of the container, although his legs have been replaced with billowing smoke.

"What the-"

"I am a genie."

"No, you're not. Since when? This only further confuses me. Why would you be a genie?"

The Hatter huffs and crosses his arms.

"Maybe I always have been. Have you ever even bothered to ask me for an origin story?"

"No, I suppose I haven't. Do I get three wishes?"

"Heavens, no."

He pops out of the can and takes a peculiar form on the floor.

"Why are you so round? Why do none of your limbs protrude? Why are you flat?"

"It is a new origin. Off with my head."

Seeing no other particularly sane alternative, she tugs off his head. It pops off easily, revealing a smaller Hatter inside. Both visible faces laugh merrily.

"Again! Again!"

She sets to work, her son happily assisting. Soon there is only one left, looking infuriatingly pleased with itself.

"But why would you be a babushka?"

"Oh, I don't know, come to think of it."

The thing vanishes and in its place stands the least graceful unicorn to ever grace this world, or any other. The hat is impaled on the horn.

"This doesn't make any sense for you either."

"Everyone's a critic."

He barges out, destroying the door. From outside come the unmistakable sounds of a horned horse feasting. The despairing cry of her neighbor is soon heard.

"Not my Slitherwheels!"

Ruth wakes up with a gasp.

"Oh, what a horrible dream."

The Hatter ceases his trumpeting at the foot of her bed and smiles.

"Glad to be of assistance."

Before she can thank him further he runs out of the house, disappearing into the crowd of people with instruments marching down the street, performing jaunty jigs.

* * *

She turns on the TV.

"It's a wormhole that each year sucks in more of taxpayer money. Something has to be done."

"Very true. But what are your views on abortion? You believe in the sanctity of life, am I correct?"

Zsasz laughs merrily for an uncomfortably long time, gives the host a conspiratorial wink. The host smiles, but seems slightly flustered.

"Moving on, how do you respond to your opponents' allegations that you should be jailed for multiple counts of murder?"

"The smear campaign has been particularly vicious this year. I'm no more murderous than the average red-blooded American."

"Well said."

Zsasz stares hard into the camera with a trustworthy smile.

"To all my doubters, I would just like to say: Make sure your windows are locked tight tonight."

"And…and what does that mean?"

"Oh, it's just a friendly reminder. It's sad to admit, but our fair city is plagued by crime these days. Which brings us to my policy on crime."

"Ah, yes. Now, some of your detractors claim your proposal is inhumane. Your thoughts?"

"Well, executions have always been an integral part of American society. I simply propose to increase the scale of this custom. And the new method would not only save countless dollars of taxpayer money that could be spent on bail-outs and bonuses, it would also be more personal and closer to our religious roots."

"I see. And-"

"Furthermore, I would like to remind my opposition that our government already sponsors torture and indiscriminate bombing of foreign civilians. Now I just think to myself: Why not take this utter disregard for human life and basic rights, and apply it to our own citizens?"

"Uh. Yes. Well, ah. That's, um…"

Zsasz smiles confidently.

"Only the poor, of course."

The host regains his composure and nods, smiling. He peers at his watch.

"Well, it looks like that's all we have time for tonight. Anything more to add, before we wrap this up?"

Zsasz's clean, sharp teeth shine brightly.

"Only this: Stay safe, America! May god bless us all, each and every one."

* * *

Ruth Adams wakes up with a gasp. She throws a look around.

"Jesus Christ."

She writes a note to her superior about assigning Freeze to someone else. Then she stiffens. Zsasz is still on TV.

* * *

AN: If there's a character you really want to appear, let me know.


	3. The Faithful and the Furious

Wayne Manor. It is night outside, the rain is heavy. Inside the lights are bright, but the two figures in view cast long shadows. Focus on the tall and muscular luchador, whose arms are held out pleadingly.

"¿No me quieres, hombre murciélago? No me amas?"

Now to the other man. Tall, dark, muscular and handsome, he turns away with a look of pained regret.

"We can't be together, Bane."

The luchador enters the frame, grabbing his hand and putting it on his massive chest.

"Siente el ritmo de mi corazón, la verdad de mi alma."

Still tall, dark and handsome turns away. He is visibly ravaged as he tries to contain his passion, he can hardly bear it! But, alas, it is his duty.

"Goddamn it, Bane, this isn't easy for me either!"

He breaks free of the luchador's strong arms. The latter's expression is forlorn. Now he looks down, steeling his resolve, before staring bravely back at the owner of his heart!

"Tengo algo que decirte, amor. Estoy embarazado. Y el niño... es un extraterrestre."

Oh, what shock and confusion on handsome's face!

"No, Bane. That...I refuse to believe it!"

Various feelings fight for dominance in his countenance. But the latin lover's confessions are not over!

"No fue yo el que mató a tus padres, Bruce! Aunque sí fue yo que maté a tus mascotas. Además, ya soy el único heredero de tu fortuna, si algo te ocurriera."

Handsome smiles in shock and yearning admiration.

"Bane, you bad, bad boy."

Luchador's eyes are obscured by heavy lids and his lips turn upward in a sultry smile.

"Soy veneno, querido. Te estoy matando pero sin mi no puedes vivir."

Handsome runs a hand through his hair, his breath labored.

"I...can't deny that. You're worse than Ivy."

They stare meaningfully at one another. The rain beats heavy outside, just like their hearts.

Later, from behind closed doors, the continuation of this conversation continues, in a manner of speaking. They shout in clear competition with the rumbling clouds.

"Oh, yes, Bane, yes! Hurt me, baby, hurt me! Aaaaaaaaah!"

"¡Jajajaja! ¡Sí, nene, voy a destruirte! Rompimos este hueso...¡y este! ¡Y este! Sí, soy un chico ma-lo. Ah, jaja, hah. ¡Cuanto amo el sufrimiento!"

* * *

The jolly jingle of an ice cream truck brings joy to the children in the dreary suburb. They run outside as fast as their itty bitty legs can carry them. The truck stops, the children smile, anticipation rises. Then the truck opens for business, and the driver is revealed. The children cry, wail and scream. The driver looks at the loudest one and tries to calm him down.

**"Shut your stupid face!**"

The crying is subdued.

"Sorry, I didn't mean that. You can have one for free. Don't be scared. I'm a reformed man."

The child sniffs, but looks somewhat appeased.

"I want chocolate," it says, drying its eyes. „No wait, vanilla."

**"Jesus Christ! Will you make up your damn mind already?**"

The crying resumes.

"Oh, no, no, I'm so sorry! Free ice cream for everyone!"

A chorus of overjoyed voices erupts. Then a grumpy little adult shows up.

"Leave the children alone, you monster! Get lost!"

The ice cream man looks saddened by this.

"But I can assure you, I'm a changed man. I only want to make up for what I've done."

"It's too late for that!" The parent's chin wobbles. „Too late. You know, I was a coin collector once. And proud of it. But then, one day, coins lost their innocence. Their cool, soft sheen as they spin became something terrifying. And I lost my hope. I lost my dreams." The parent can no longer hold back the tears and snot and points a rude finger at the ice cream man. „You ruined my life!"

The ice cream man's heart melts.

"I'm...I'm so sorry. I never realized...how much my actions could hurt people."

Two rivers flow from the parent's eyes.

"Shut up! You...you bacon face!"

The ice cream man pulls a gun.

**"Alright, that's it!**"

The children scatter, shouting of the ice cream man's intention to ice the parent. The parent runs around the truck as the pursuer follows. Many bullets fly, more shouts are heard, endless rings are run. Finally a stray bullet hits the truck, and the jingle starts again, sounding slightly demonic. The parent uses the confusion to run inside its house. The ice cream man starts his truck and follows inside, smashing through the wall and into the living room.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to shoot at you! I can make up for my crimes! Would you like free ice cream?"

The parent runs screaming outside. Once more ice cream man pursues. A masked child twists itself in the most heinous ways, shouting after them: „Once more unto the breach, ice cream man!"

The parent runs at an incredible pace, but the ice cream truck lives up to its reputation. When the ice cream man says his truck is fast, he isn't just tooting his horn. He is now, however, tooting his horn, in a desperate attempt to make peace with the crybaby.

"Please! I just want to make it all better!"

The parent does not hear. But it does not matter, for it collapses to the ground soon afterward. The ice cream man gets out, smiling, with two delicious looking cones in his hands.

"What's your name?"

The parent pants for breath.

"Harvey."

The ice cream man looks delighted.

"Really? Mine, too!"

The parent accepts the gift and takes one tentative lick. Then another and another and soon it cannot stop.

Two-Face is more civilized in his approach. His half-ruined mouth opens just so and his tongue lashes out at the delicacy.

"Hoo-hah!"

After this exclamation of appreciation, he sighs contentedly.

"Sometimes, it almost doesn't suck to be Harvey Dent."

They both lived happily ever after.

* * *

The door is rattled by a knocking. He opens. In the doorway stands a huge robotic suit, a regularly sized scientist inside it. He speaks in a cold monotone.

"Good evening. Did someone...order pizza?"

He looks the armored man up and down, his cheek jutting out as he sucks excruciatingly slowly on his lollipop.

"Oh, that was me. Please. Come on in."

The huge man hesitates, then tries to force a smile as he steps inside.

"With... gusto."

* * *

A manhole cover is pushed out of its seat, its loud scraping on the pavement gathering the attention of bystanders. A gargantuan, clawed hand rises out of the sewer and takes a hold. Slowly the sewer spits out a figure so large even true believers would not dream it could fit through the manhole. The thing wears a pitch black overcoat and hat. Its skin is grey and hard, its face a gruesome attempt at humanity. One hand clutches a book to its chest. It is a heavy book, but not in the usual manner, oh no, my friends. It is the heaviest book of all, the one those drenched in sin will find impossible to hold.

"What has Jesus done for you?"

The creature's rumbling roar echoes in the calm street. People flock closer, a motley gathering growing ever larger.

"People, I got to speak about something!"

The dark clouds part slightly, bathing the scene in glorious moonlight. The thing shakes its mighty hand toward heaven.

"The savior has done his deed! The path is cle-ah!"

Soon there is a throng of lambs, staring doe-eyed at the preacher.

"You gotta walk the straight and narrow! But th' devil is on yo tai-ahl!"

It looks down, eyes aflame.

"He's got the fire! He's got the fury!"

Some shiver. Perhaps from cold, perhaps from something more meaningful.

"But you need not worrah! Hold on to Jesus' hay-and!"

They gasp, finding deep inside them good long forgotten.

"And we'll all be safe from Satan! When the thunder rolls!"

The sky rumbles, and a fiend from hell appears before the crowd.

"This ends now, Croc. You can't preach here. You should be in jail."

Spittle cries from the holy man's mouth as he continues.

"Don't pay heed to temptation! For his hands are so cold!"

Batman turns to the crowd.

"Please disperse. It isn't safe here."

The preacher's mammoth hand takes hold and hefts aloft the man-shaped shadow.

"Help me keep the devil! Way down in the hole!"

The followers nod and clap their hands, for they know what is true.

"Hallelujah!"

The creature holds the struggling demon over the manhole.

"Go down, mighty devil!"

He beats vainly on the preacher's arms.

"But I don't want to."

The creature shakes its head in a feverish trance.

"Down, down, down!"

He pushes it into the manhole and the devil disappears into the darkness below. The holy man pulls the cover back into place. He turns back to his flock and shakes his mighty fist.

**"Hallelujah**!"

"Hallelujah!"

He sets off into the night, heavy footfalls echoing. The flock moans as they fan themselves, coming to grips with the light that has touched their hearts.

* * *

He opens his fridge to get a beer, but finds only a contortionist clipping his toenails.

"Good day to you, sir."

"The hell are you?"

The man abandons his pursuit of personal hygiene and unfurls himself, still shivering from the cold.

"That is hardly an appropriate greeting, daddy. But I will take no offense, for I must request your assistance."

"What?"

He stretches in the most unpleasant ways, raising his leg higher than any respectable personage should.

"I wish to borrow your dresses."

"What dresses?"

The intruder clambers onto the kitchen counter and prances around, expertly avoiding the mass of mouldy foodstuffs as he waves his hands in indignation.

"What a world we live in! To think that the very owner of such gorgeous gowns would feel ashamed at the mention of their existence!"

"But I don't...I don't own any dresses."

The contortionist twists himself and from betwixt his legs wags a finger at his father.

"Shush now, shame does not become you."

"And if I had dresses, why would I give them to you?"

The creepy little fellow lunges at Bullock and attaches himself awkwardly to his shoulders and around his arms.

"For I am your dear son and you love me madly? And I very much need them? You see, I have a dancing bear upstairs that is desperately in need of regal regalia such as you possess. It is oh, so hard to find the right size for him."

"Ya sound insane and you're wearing a costume. So I think I'll just arrest ya and be done with it."

"I shall elect to ignore that statement."

The contortionist hugs his father, his hands having a hard time reaching around the mighty belly.

"Why must you be this way? I just need you love me. Just love me."

Harvey Bullock wakes screaming. He recites a silent prayer as he realizes there is no contortionist wrapped around him demanding love.

* * *

Gordon watches the news coverage, a delightful mix of disgust, disapproval, despair and utter confusion on his face. The reporter goes on.

"In an unprecedented turn of events, mayoral candidate Victor Zsasz is now running for president after the startling and sudden demise of every single candidate of the Republican party."

His coffee spills itself onto the floor.

"Experts aren't sure how this happened or if it is even technically possible, but one thing is certain: Victor Zsasz has captured the heart of this nation, as evidenced by the whopping sixty percent support he has netted in the latest surveys."

The TV is turned off. A smelly shadow stands before him. He looks to his ally for answers.

"Is there anything else that has changed, apart from Zsasz' political career?"

The dark knight shifts uneasily.

"I just woke up in the sewer, Bullock is crying downstairs and I think...I think I have feelings for Bane."

There is a deep silence.

* * *

AN: Name a character and they shall appear.


	4. Swimming in Sorrows

She turns on the television.

"Now, Mr. Zsasz, some concerns have been expressed over the validity of your vice presidential candidate. Some say your eyebrows just aren't qualified. What is your response?"

"That is simply too preposterous for me to answer."

"Moving on, then. How do you plan to revive the economy?"

"I will do something, rest assured. It's a complex plan, with an incredible seven steps."

"And what exactly do these steps entail?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Fantastic. But what are your views on the military budget?"

"It's definitely not high enough."

"Good point. And what of hostile nations, any message for them?"

"No. I do intend, however, to keep up this country's proud tradition of invading and destroying tiny countries."

"Any idea as to which tiny country should be laid to waste next?"

"No, I plan to choose one at random when the time comes. But trust me, it will further our agenda of making the world a nicer place."

She turns it off.

* * *

"Good afternoon, professor. I am… kawaii… desu…chibi...am I not?"

She takes in the startlingly handsome student's body, admiring in particular the short skirt.

"How clumsy of me. I seem to have dropped… my Pokemon."

The student bends over slowly, revealing ample armor-clad buttocks, and she can practically feel her blood boiling.

"Hubba-hubba!"

Before she can further articulate, countless tentacles sprout from her body.

* * *

She turns on the television.

"This just in: The pope was slain earlier today in what was reportedly a drive-by orchestrated by the Swiss Guard, who report that they were simply fed up with his holiness' stupid sense of humor. Catholic bishops will now gather for a week-long festival of demonic activities and debauchery, after which the least hung over bishop will elect a new pope. Rumor has it an American is considered a contender: Waylon Jones, who according to our sources on the street is better known as The Stinkin' Prophet, Man. More as it happens."

"The votes are coming in now and it seems we have a winner. And…this is incredible! It looks like Victor Zsasz is the first man in history to win an election with a clear 100 percent!"

She switches to cartoons.

* * *

"Mommy, he's been in there way too long!"

She looks up from her magazine and gazes over the swimming pool.

"Who has?"

Suddenly an old man with silly hair bursts from the water, raising his hands dramatically.

"I live! My blood pumps once more and my arms regain their strength!"

"Chill, grandpa. You're scaring the kids."

"What? I am old and fatherless!"

"Okay?"

"Wait, who are you? Why are you in my pit? Guards! Intruders in the pit!"

"Look, I think you're a bit lost."

"My eyes have seen countless wonders over the years. But never have I witnessed anything as ridiculous as that bathing suit!"

"Hey, shut it! I like this thing."

A stunningly beautiful assassin appears on the bank of the pool.

"Father, you have suffered head trauma. You must come with me."

The old man glares at her.

"I! Am! Alive!"

He raises his hands skyward with every exclamation.

"Yes, Father. Now come out of the pool."

He turns away and points an accusing finger at the people around him.

"Fools! Fools! You know not what harm you inflict! You fools!"

The assassin frowns.

"Father, please."

"You are not my mother!"

He attacks, splashing water at her wildly. She shakes with anger. He leans back on the bank, relaxing.

"I am the most…the most dangerous man alive."

He dozes off. The assassin grabs his arm and they disappear in a cloud of smoke.

* * *

The Joker sits in his cell, a dark shawl covering his head. His bony fingers hover above a crystal ball and he hums.

"I see…many unborn children…and they're…they're refusing to enter this world!"

Batman hangs upside down from the ceiling.

"Bullshit."

The Joker frowns, his fingers still moving.

"Hang on, I see something else…Yes! The spirits are telling me something! What's that? Batman's a giant douchebag? Bah!"

He smashes the crystal on the floor.

"I don't need a stinking crystal ball to tell me that."

Batman sighs.

"Whatever. I'm calling Zatanna."

* * *

She turns on the television.

"This was the scene today as President Zsasz was sworn into office, to the jubilation of his supporters. A rash of unexplained killings during the ceremony put a slight dampener on the festivities, however. The police have no leads whatsoever."

She turns it off.

* * *

Killer Moth enters the bank with guns blazing. Cocoon! Cocoon! The cocoon gun fires wildly. The guards are left helpless and terrified. He strides forward with purpose, all gleaming metal and striking color. The people cower and flee.

"Run! It's Killer Moth, the most wanted criminal in the world!"

"Hot damn, he's confident and dangerous!"

"I bet he's really handsome under that mask!"

"I've never been so scared in my life!"

"AAAAAAH!"

A little boy tugs on his mother's arm.

"Mommy, why are all the people screaming?"

Killer Moth deflates just a little.

"Because that's Killer Moth, Tim."

He inflates once more and leaves the bank with loads of cash, strutting fashionably onto the street before taking to the air with his magnificent wings. He lets out a mighty war cry.

"I don't know if moths really make any sound!"

He feels pleased with himself. Immediately he is knocked to the ground as something crashes into him. As he hurtles to the ground he sees a man flying away with an umbrella.

"Out of the way, peasant! The king of go-go dancing rules the sky!"

Drury Walker feels a bit saddened, but he feels great honor at having met a real king for once.

"This is how most people see me."

Killer Moth sits in a grey armchair, his bright colors clashing with it as his bug eyes stare blindly.

"But it's not who I am."

The antennae on his head move slowly, mesmerizingly. The whole room is gray, the walls flaking.

"I am more…underneath."

He takes off the helmet and his bug eyes stare blindly.

"I am alone. Tomorrow is far away."

A giant centipede crawls out of the wall and slithers onto the floor.

"Every morning I wake with a new thought."

The centipede stops.

"Mine is the wisdom of the dead dogs."

The centipede rises into the air, standing on only two legs, shivering madly.

"I can't be alone. Tomorrow is so far away."

The centipede dies.

"There's a deep hole in front of me. I think I will go."

The centipede is slowly dragged back into the wall by an unseen predator.

"I will be with you tomorrow."

His bug eyes stare blindly at you.

"You will wake up. And I will be there."

The sound of feasting comes from inside the wall.

* * *

Stephanie Brown wakes with a start. She rubs her weary eyes and yawns.

"That was one messed up dream."

She opens her eyes to see a little child in a Robin costume at the foot of her bed. She leans over with a confused air, but as she draws closer she is filled with excitement over hearing its first words. The child smiles and fills its lungs.

"Jus-tice!"


	5. Reading into Rubbish

"I'm a child!"

Vicki looks over at the gigantic, hairy spider sitting beside her on the couch.

"Sure you are."

She turns on the TV.

"In yet another startling turn of events, it turns out the first lady, Sharon Sharp Zsasz, is in fact not a woman but a knife. Experts are unsure how they did not realize this before, but many are willing to blame this occurrence on the strange time skip between the announcement of Zsasz' candidacy and his election. The president calmed worried citizens by assuring them he's chock-full of Christian values."

* * *

"What is happening over there?"

"Bullock's training."

"I can see that. But what the hell is happening all around him?"

"Oh, those are his personal trainers, a perverted contortionist and his monkeys."

"Thank you for the concise explanation."

"No problem, chief."

"No, I really mean it. Great work."

"I love you, commissioner."

"Sure, why the hell not?"

They hug it out, the commissioner looking flustered and annoyed at nothing in particular, aside perhaps from the monkeys and their encouraging screeches.

* * *

"You're my mommy!"

Vicki looks at the spider with tired eyes.

"Of course. That much should be obvious."

She turns on the TV and sees herself.

"Tragedy struck earlier today, as unknown assailants assaulted the White House, leaving only two survivors. The president and his eyebrows had this to say:"

The haggard face of Victor Zsasz appears on television screens all over the country.

"Terrorists did it."

The news anchor appears once more.

"And there you have it."

* * *

The car roars and rocks as it speeds down the highway. The driver's eyes spy a stunning beauty ahead.

"Now who's that handsome creature?"

"You mean me, mom?"

She glares at the spider in the back seat.

"Shut up."

Her gaze returns to the eye candy. A man in a mini-skirt and a half-ton suit of armor stands on the side of the road, showing some leg. The car screeches to a halt. The man bends down seductively and stares into the car with bedroom eyes. A robotic voice sounds.

"Would you give me a ride, in more than one way?"

The driver nods, drooling.

* * *

The news keeps coming in.

"We go back to the White House now, as president Zsasz expands on his harrowing experience."

The president stands firm at his podium, looking down on the masses with a determined air.

"My fellow Americans. Yesterday we suffered a terrible loss. But we will do what this proud nation does best: We will look to the future. And we will forget all about the past."

"Mr. President! Can you tell us how you survived and what happened to the terrorists?"

"I…held out my bible…and they all went up in flames. Next question."

"Can you tell us how they managed to overcome security using only bladed weapons?"

"They appeared well trained. And they really, really hated freedom."

"Mr. President! In your earlier statement you looked to be bleeding, were you injured in the attack?"

"No, no, almost none of the blood was mine. I, ah, cradled many of my men as they lay dying, swearing vengeance. I also carved into my skin a mark for every casualty. As a constant reminder, and a vow: Never again!"

The public applauds. The camera goes back to the studio.

"And there you have it. We have here with us in the studio an angry, middle-aged white man. Angry white man, can you tell us what this means?"

"Well, it's like I've always said: We have to invade some country. It's the only logical course of action."

It cuts to advertisements.

"Hello. My name is Harvey Dent."

The camera zooms in on one of the gaping holes in his bad cheek.

"I would like to introduce to you my new brand of ice cream."

He lifts up a delicious looking cone.

"I'm so proud of it I practically put my face on it. It's gorgeous on one side."

He shows the camera.

"And on the other side it's burnt to a crisp."

He turns it around, showing something that simply does not make sense. The camera zooms out, showing smiling Harvey and his ice cream. He takes a tentative lick and smiles some more. Mmm-mm-mmm, it does look delicious. Yes, yes it does.

End advertisements. The president appears once more.

"My fellow Americans. To show our enemies that we are not afraid, that we will answer any challenge, we must avenge our fallen."

He walks up to a globe and stares into the camera with determination and splendor, a strong desire for freedom for all shining bright in his eyes.

"Now, it is hardly important who we exact revenge upon, so I will simply spin this globe and point blindly."

The globe spins and spins. The president's finger hovers heroically.

* * *

A muscle-bound giant sits at Bullock's desk. Gordon stands before him, bemused.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Harvey, dude!"

"No. You don't look anything like him."

"I been working out, bro."

"No, you don't understand. Your face doesn't look anything like him."

"Been working out, man. My face too."

He does a couple of face-lifts to demonstrate. Gordon's face is a mixture of confusion and disgust, with a dash of inexplicable envy.

"I…cannot comprehend what just happened. But why would Harvey be blond?"

"Been workin' out, guy."

Harvey's hair rises and falls. Rises. And falls. Soon beads of perspiration are forming on the luscious mane. Gordon's face contorts.

"What…is…happening?"

Renee Montoya walks over, suspicion in her eyes.

"But how could Harvey be so tall?"

"Oh, that's simple, dudette."

He stands up and starts his mysterious exercises, growing and shrinking repeatedly in stature. His head bumps against the ceiling, almost breaking it.

"I…but what about the voice? You don't sound like Harvey."

Harvey grins. Then he puts a hand down his throat and pulls out his vocal chords, stretching and kneading them. Renee watches, frozen in horror.

"Been working that out too, brah."

"How…are you…speaking?"

"Duuuude, that's hella simple! I just…"

"No. I don't need to know."

Gordon walks away. Renee follows suit, throwing glances back at the new Harvey Bullock, who's still working out his vocal chords.

"Commissioner, are you just gonna let that…thing take Harvey's place?"

"What's that, Renee? You saw something disturbing? I didn't. Didn't see anything. Not. A. Thing."

* * *

She lies in bed smoking and sipping a cold one. A sleeping man in a gigantic suit of armor is cradled in her strong arms. A mammoth spider knocks on the door.

"Hey, Ma, can I come in?"

She turns up the volume on the TV.

"This was the scene in Belgium today, as president Zsasz personally led the invasion to uproot the dangerous and extremely anti-American terrorist group The Flemish Association."

She watches with a tear in her eye as the president gets to work. The national anthem plays. She would rise and salute, if only she could move the massive hitchhiker.

* * *

"So, can you help me?"

Zatanna places a crystal ball atop Batman's head.

"Sure, just stay still."

"Do I have to be dressed as a cheerleader?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

Her hands hover over the crystal ball, her eyebrows wagging mystically.

"Do we have to do this in front of the Joker's cell?"

"Ssshh! I'm working. Can you tell me when reality and dream started merging?"

"No, I've been busy with justice. I don't have time for the real world."

"Something's happening! It's…your parents. They say they're worried about the girl that's laughing and taking pictures of you."

Batman's eyes glaze over and his jaw clenches.

"Tell them…tell them I'm used to it."

Zatanna glares at the girl.

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on your boyfriend? Or your child, or whatever he is?"

The girl looks around frantically, seeing no infant in a robin suit.

"Ooops!"

She runs off. Zatanna prepares a hellishly difficult spell.

"Srewsna won!"

The Batman crosses his fingers.

"Huh. It seems unborn children are responsible."

"No way."

The Joker presses his face against the glass.

"Told you! Told you! Now you gotta kiss me!"

The Batman's face is sad. His eyes look imploringly to the heavens.

"Whyyyyyy?"

Zatanna shakes her head sadly.

"Them's the rules."

* * *

Killer Moth sits atop a sleeping person, his colorful costume looking pretty in the morning light. Under his breath he mutters the lyrics to "When You Gonna Wake Up?"

The moths covering every surface of the room go wild, jamming like crazy to their idol's incredible voice. He pulls out the air guitar and the moths are blown away. The person wakes to the awesomely cool mask of Killer Moth, blinking stupidly. Killer Moth falls asleep.

* * *

AN: Thought you were rid of me? Think again, bud. Now name a character. Or else.


	6. Miracles and Meat

Mr. Berndsen wakes to the sleeping form of Killer Moth and decides to take him to the bank where he works.

"Hey, Berndsen! It's take your _kid_ to work day, not take your…uh…"

The office jackass takes too long to come up with a joke and is left in a cocoon. The two colorful best friend head to the cubicles to raise some hell.

After only a few hours of messing with his new best friend and absolutely ruining the economy of a tenth of the nation, his bosses show up.

"Bluh, bluh, bluh, we hate life and bluh, bluh, Mr. Berndsen. Please bluh to the office, bluh, bluh, speak with you about bluh, bluh, bluh de bluh, bluuuuh."

They follow into the disgusting office and come face to face with a number of sorry sacks. One of them starts speaking.

"We don't like bluh, bluh, bluh..."

His best friend sticks out terribly in this grey, white and black environ. He yawns mightily. As the morons across from them keep blathering, something starts happening. The stripes drip off of Killer Moth's costume, float along the floor, and swim up the old men's legs. Soon the grey leaves them all, and they are smiling. Killer Moth spreads his wings and rises into the air. The old men's faces tear under the strain of their mirth. Mr. Berndsen is alive. He lives and breathes. He lives!

* * *

Crispus Allen, who might be asleep and might be dreaming about children or might not, turns on his idiot box. The news is on.

"This was the scene in an anonymous country in the Middle East today as the Vice President held peace talks."

The meeting is absolutely still, two warring leaders looking intently and with solemn concern at a pair of eyebrows resting atop a plush pillow. Back to anchor.

"According to spokespersons, the talks have thus far been inconclusive."

* * *

As the Batman works at his table, contemplating the nature of justice and the universe and the role of justice within the universe and whether people really like him or are just pretending, there is a loud revving sound behind him. He is oblivious to this movement and his caught absolutely unawares, honest, as the Batmobile drives softly into him. He falls stealthily to the floor, breaking a few pieces of million dollar equipment and grunting stealthily as his face hits the ground. The Batmobile looks at its owner with doe eyes. Batman's face is a mask of shock and horror.

"Sweet monkey Jesus!"

"Why don't you spend time with me anymore?"

The Batman stands up and looks away, warding the vehicle off with a stern hand.

"You are a car. A. Car. Don't speak to me."

* * *

Crispus Allen is in a yoga class. Man, is his trainer hot. All sleek, surprisingly flexible machinery and a blue man inside, red eyes staring lustily out.

"Just stretch," the robotic voice intones huskily, "just stretch. That is very good, Crispus. I am so glad you accepted my offer of _private_ lessons."

Crispus chuckles throatily. The robotic body stretches so that it turns to him.

"Would you care to do some… two-person exercises with me, Mr. Allen?"

Crispus chuckles some more, nodding and talking dirty clumsily.

* * *

"Welcome back to PopeWatch. As the week of debauchery is now coming to an end and the bishops are shitfaced enough to be called cardinals, we are expecting the winner of the sinning competition to step out any time now to elect a new pope. And wait, here comes one wrinkled old man now!"

The cardinal steps out of the lord's house, stumbles towards the podium. Just before he gets there, however, he falls on his face, revealing to the world that his robe is open at the back. Holy butt cheeks face proudly towards heaven. The camera returns to the studio, where the anchor grasps his desk tightly, staring with barely restrained excitement at the spectacle.

"Any minute now," he mutters under his breath.

The cardinal shows signs of movement. His head jerks. Suddenly there emerges a flood from his mouth, in all the colors of vomit.

"Keep in mind that these men have been partying hard and covering up crimes non-stop for a week now. This is never easy, but it is necessary. Wait! Something's happening!"

The cardinal rises majestically and stumbles the last few steps to the podium, like a disgusting, drunk child learning to walk. His robe has changed color. He stops at the podium and stares dully ahead. Absolute stillness reigns.

"It appears the cardinal has forgotten the name of whoever he is about to elect. There is no telling what will happen next."

The cardinal starts miming drunkenly.

"That's the Godzilla, if I'm not mistaken."

The cardinal throws up once more.

"Hmm. We may be looking at a dragon here. You heard it first here, folks. This is history in the making. The first dragon to be elected pope is about to be- Wait, hold on. Someone is approaching the cardinal. It seems to be Waylon Jones, holy man extraordinaire."

The cardinal gazes drunkenly at the mammoth reptile man, then points at him with a huge grin on his face and gives the thumbs up.

"Wait! Yes, yes it seems we have a new pope! Killer Croc, a mutant criminal from the sewers of Gotham, has just been chosen! What a momentous occasion! And now, to sports."

* * *

A man stands on a street corner, a little grey cart in front of him. He seems unperturbed by the steady rain and the cold wind that bites to the bone. His masked face shows no expression, obviously. He shouts and hollers in a gravelly voice, trying to gain the attention of the people walking by. It is a difficult task, as most of them haven sunken into their clothes hoping for protection from the elements.

"Brutaldogs! Brutaldogs! Get your brutaldogs! Only one dollar!"

The new and physically impossible Harvey Bullock jogs by, but jogs right back once the delicious smell of meat assails his senses. He comes to a halt in front of the cart, arms crossed and a massive smile on his handsome face. His short shorts barely move in the wind, so tightly do they confirm to his chiseled buttocks.

"Geez Louise! One dollar for these hella smell-good juicy sausages? You must be right outta your, oooh, sweet little mind, baby!"

Black Mask shows no expression, though his eyes might be construed as seeming pleased. Then again, they might not.

"Yes. Only one dollar. Delicious hot dog. Buy it."

Bullock bites on his lower lip, jerking his head in appreciation.

"Honey, your name's temptation. You must get the meat hella cheap, yeah?"

Black Mask nods.

"Yes. There's a steady supply, very cheap."

Bullock steals the hot dog from the vendor's hand, running his nose along it, making orgasmic noises.

"Hoo! Wow-ee! Don't smell like nothing I've ever tasted before, sugartits! What is it?"

Black Mask watches the spectacle with a mask on his face.

"It's a secret ingredient. So you know it's good. Not unsanitary in any way whatsoever. Here. The kid gets one for free."

Bullock's son, the contortionist, accepts the hot dog. He doesn't eat it however, as he is also wearing a mask. And taking it off would simply be rude. Bullock eats one without chewing. Just slides it right down there. Black Mask nods.

"Good. Make sure you eat it all."

Bullock gets another and another and chows on them greedily. Between more orgasmic noises and obnoxious chewing he expresses himself.

"Wow, sex kitten, I can just feel all the nutrients entering my body."

Black Mask nods once more.

"Yes. Very healthy. Makes you strong. It's good for you. Very good."

Bullock sheds a tear and smiles.

"You got any special deals for monkeys, sexy thing?"

Black Mask shrugs, his face unreadable.

"Sure, if you stop hitting on me."

"Can do, babycakes!"

Suddenly Black Mask's mask starts creaking, and the wood slowly forces itself into a frown.

"No deals. Pay up and get lost."

But Bullock has forgotten his wallet. He solves the problem by offering his short shorts as payment. Then he jogs away into the sunset.

* * *

"Pope Boniface X started his first day as pope with a bang today, revolutionizing the Catholic Church in one fell swoop. Reports are coming in now and it appears he has murdered quite a few priests and bishops and sent their mangled bodies as peace offerings to victims of the church. Pedophiles and apologists everywhere raised some concerns earlier today as the news broke, but they have not been heard from since. More as it happens."

* * *

Stephanie steps into the Batcave. It is in shambles. Batman hangs from the ceiling, shivering.

"What's up?"

He looks at her with frightened eyes.

"It's alive! It needs affection! It's trying to kill me!"

She nods.

"Okay."

"Be careful! It's like that movie!"

The car nods curtly to her.

"Hello."

"Hey."

After the obligatory awkward moment, she turns her gaze back to the Batman.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask you, what's that weird machine over in the corner?"

The Batman broods.

"Never mind that. Where's your infant boyfriend?"

"I had him cryogenically frozen."

"Bad idea. Zatanna says this is caused by unborn children."

"He's already been born. He's just taking a, uh, bit of a break."

The Batman nods.

"Okay. Would you mind lying down and pretend to wake up? Then saying something about how a weird a dream that was? Might fix things."

"Sure." She lies down, snoring loudly. She continues doing so.

"Stephanie? Stephanie?"

The car stares up at him.

"Would you like to come down?"

The Batman curls himself up and gets comfy.

"I'm good, thanks."


	7. Babes and Booty

"Jesus Christ returned earlier today, but was immediately arrested. "

"According to the police, the savior was arrested for disturbing the peace and treason, as he spouted some communist propaganda and un-American values. Witnesses claim to have been sorely disappointed by the savior's appearance, owing mostly to the fact that he was not white. "

"In an outstanding display of efficient bureaucracy, he was put on trial and sentenced to death in only one day."

"For such a momentous occasion, authorities decided to reinstate the electric chair, and it was there that the savior met his end. Let's see him try and forgive that, eh, Charlene?"

"Haha. Ha ha."

The camera pans between the two smiling anchors, then a mighty church appears on screen, its cross being removed. The anchor keeps going.

"True believers all over the country are replacing their crucifixes with little electric chairs, as a sign of acceptance of the savior's message of indifference and oppression."

"As of yet, there has been no word from the Vatican."

* * *

A woman notices an unknown man in her bed. Her name is Jane Doe, and she is asleep. She wakes him.

"Who are you, stranger?"

His sleep-plastered eyes see nothing.

"I am the sleepiest of the sleepy men," he says, returning to his slumber.

"Very well."

She cuts him open and climbs inside.

* * *

"My name is Jamil Gunther Lovebase."

"I like your name." His voice drops to a harsh whisper. "I'm Batman."

"I know who you are."

"No way."

The man nods.

"Yes. I saw your face once."

"And you recognized the chin? Damn."

"No, no. I just saw your face." He looks away with anguish. "It was like mine."

"What?"

Suddenly he is sitting, petting a fat cat on his lap.

"You see, we are not so different, you and I."

"What?"

"I am an orphan. Therefore I understand."

"What?"

"I love helping people. I am good with children." His voice drops to a heady hiss. "Justice."

"Sweet Jesus!"

"If you want me to be."

"No, I'm exclaiming in horror. You're made of cardboard!"

"Yes. It's part of my superpower."

Bruce steps back, shaking his head in disbelief, a look of utter terror etched into his face.

"Farewell for now, chum. Remember: I will call you, not the other way around."

The man looks calmly on.

"Oh, man, I really blew that one. I am such a hothead. Everyone says so."

* * *

"Good afternoon. Could you assist me? I wish to change, narrow down my character a bit, maybe even revolutionize it. Your thoughts would be appreciated."

Jane shrugs as she pulls out a knife.

"Sure."

"I was thinking something along the lines of a new look."

With a noisy poof, the Hatter is transformed.

"Oh, god."

Jane Doe experiences a feeling she is not accustomed to: revolting terror. The Hatter is wearing a tight white corset, white stockings, a small rabbit tail on his backside, and large bunny ears to round the whole thing off. Acres of supple flesh are shown.

"So I thought, among all the other things I think, why not become another Carroll character?"

She shakes her head slowly, her knife clattering to the floor. She doesn't want to be him at all.

"White and pink are…not your colors. Please, I-"

"I could even chance a change of modus operandi. Perhaps I should start flirting with the Batman?"

She's sent reeling.

"No…no…no…"

"That would certainly ruffle Catwoman's feathers. Stay alert, Gotham, there is a new seductive villain on the loose! What do you think?"

But Jane can think no more. She is drooling and showing off her moves, doing an old party pleaser: the convulsive fetus on the floor.

* * *

"Alright, people! I have gotten word there is a dangerous criminal hiding in the sewers. You all know what to do."

Gordon nods serenely as the police force lets out a collective sigh.

"That's right. Every single one of you has to march down there. All at once, every single cop, organized march. No moaning. This is not a drill."

Gordon chuckles and guffaws, drunk on power as the whole police force trudges outside.

"Don't come back till you find him!"

He closes the door to the station after the last sucker has left. Then he peers around conspiratorially before using the computers to watch the newest Mr. Freeze video. He smiles lewdly as the blue man with a heart of gold rolls down his window.

* * *

"Is there a problem…officer?"

Officer Jane Doe peers down at the hunk of metal sitting in the strange vehicle.

"Sir, you do realize this car is the Batmobile?"

Mr. Freeze fans himself, looking bewildered and lost, but hot.

"Oh. Really?"

"It is also on fire."

"I-I'm sorry, officer, I didn't know that was illegal."

"Driving a vehicle that can be classified as a tank on city streets before midnight is also frowned upon. I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

"Oh, but I really can't get ticketed again. Isn't there some way we can work this out? I'd be willing to do anything."

Jane pulls at her collar, finding it hard to focus. Cold eyelashes flutter.

"A…ny…thing."

Bow-chicka-bow-wow.

* * *

Elsewhere, at a karaoke club known only as the Wintry Dodone, the muted television screen shows the city's entire police force getting trapped in the sewers as a fiendish trap explodes all around them. The people present at the Wintry Dodone, however, are not fazed by this. They are too busy shouting, as the show's about to start. Raucous applause breaks out as the owner, one Dinah Laurel Lance, steps out onto the stage, wearing her trademark fishnet stockings and black leather jacket.

"Welcome, ladies and gents, to yet another Frivolous Friday here at the WD. Tonight we have a real treat for you. First up we have a particularly bright protégé of mine, a crowd-pleaser whose explosive tones will keep you occupied for the next hour or so. After that we move on to the more, shall we say…provocative entertainment."

The audience applauds and she bows. Then she rises, spreading her hands.

"And now…please welcome: Professor Hugo Strange!"

A man saunters out onto the stage, wearing the exact same costume as Black Canary. The crowd goes wild and the man's bald head sparkles. It is indeed Hugo Strange. His smooth, womanly jazz voice assails the audience's ears.

"People…are strange…"

* * *

"In a shock discovery, psychologists claim after intensive testing that commissioner Gordon possesses the intelligence of a sponge. It is now hotly debated whether he is truly capable of speech, or whether he functions somewhat like a canyon, echoing back what has been said to him."

Jane Doe picks her nose.

"Commissioner Gordon will still be leading the handful of police officers that remain in the city. Good night."

* * *

Black Canary is back on stage, giving Hugo Strange a playful swat on the backside as he retreats. The crowd is still going wild. She takes a moment to throw Oliver Queen a murderous little glare as he stares hazily after the singer.

"Let's hear it for the Strange, people!"

They hear it. As the audience slowly quiets, she wags her eyebrows.

"You may just be seeing more of Hugo, if you stay long enough."

She spreads her hands.

"But now, let's get started! Let's hear it for our first dancer!"

She hops off the stage and a man in a business suit comes on. He stares provocatively down at the crowd. All is quiet. Suddenly he rips off his skin, revealing another identity below. The crowd goes wild. Jane Doe starts pulling off some serious moves, swinging all around the pole and occasionally leaving strips of flesh behind. The audience claps, roars, vomits.

* * *

"This was the scene in New Zealand today, as President Zsasz spearheaded the campaign against terrorist group known as New Zealand's Fellowship of the Ring."

The anchor wipes a tear from his eye.

"Fight on, sir. Fight on."

"And this was the scene only hours later, as President Zsasz personally delivered food to the police officers trapped in the sewers, only to find them brutally murdered."

"This just in: The autopsies reveal the officers committed suicide, each and every one. President Zsasz vows: Never again."

* * *

An obscenely tall and slender man clad in rags looks down at one of the dancers. His voice is a chilled, cutting whisper.

"_Honey, what _are_ you wearing?"_

He shakes his head at her antics on stage.

"_No, no, no._"

With one nimble step he is atop the stage, ushering the dancer off.

"_It isn't what you do, it's how you do it_."

He takes a few steps backward, swaying like a, yes, like a scarecrow in the wind. Then he sets forth once more, reaching out a spindly arm to grasp the pole firmly. He swoons, his thin frame threatening to slip through the cracks in the floor. He rises once more and does a little spin away from the pole, seeming to disappear every time he turns his side to the audience. With every sensual move he seems to move further and further away from this dimension and its rules.

"_Hrrooo! Hrraaa!_"

He flails his arms and they lengthen, shooting out into the room as his impossible physique seems to exaggerate itself. His clothes come off on their own as his limbs swing wildly throughout the room; jagged bones, old scars and sallow flesh bared for all to see. The audience feels the chill touch of death and bewildered arousal upon their hearts.

* * *

Jane Doe wakes up with a gasp, coming face to face with the Batman, who is peering intently into her eyes. He screams at her.

"Did you dream about children?"

She blinks sleepily.

"What? No."

The Batman narrows his eyes, subtly pulling out a batarang. Jane Doe's eyes widen.

"Oh, shit! I am not the sleepiest of the sleepy men! I am not the sleepiest of the sleepy men!"

The wall to her apartment is broken to pieces as the Batmobile smashes inside, bellowing.

"Oh, yeaaaah!"

* * *

"The White House announced earlier today that the president will be undergoing body modification to make room for his well-known body art."

"The president will be getting a slab of skin and muscle attached to his lower back. We are told it will look somewhat like a humongous, bald platypus tail. Scientists believe that if the new appendage can be successfully connected to the president's body it could be used for swimming or other useful purposes, such as flight, if the president were to take to the skies. Which our experts agree has to be considered unlikely."

* * *

There is a soft rapping on his restroom window and the vague silhouette of a face appears. The unmistakable voice of the Batman emanates from the other side of the pane.

"On sultry winter nights I wear women's clothing."

Then there is silence, and the silhouette disappears. Gordon quickly pulls his pants up and opens the window, peering this way and that. There is no sign of the Batman outside the obsidian restroom tower, nor on any of the rooftops below. Gordon shakes his head and mutters to himself in a perturbed voice.

"My god. What does it mean?"

* * *

AN: Name character, see character.


	8. Hankering for Holidays

"Breaking news from the White House!"

Horns wail hysterically.

"Aoooga! Aooga!"

They wail and wail, showing absolutely no sign whatsoever of stopping. The anchor's face scrunches up in pain but he heroically keeps reporting.

"Breaking news, you guys!"

"The president has had another surgery to accommodate his beautiful mementos of suffering."

The anchor is sweating profusely, his forked tongue hanging limply and the black pools that serve as his eyes leaking ink down his face. The camera man shudders.

"Uh, guy? There's something weird going on with your face right there."

The anchor nods, sobbing.

"Yeah, I know, I know. I'm having a bad hair day. God awful."

The anchor's hair is actually beautiful beyond measure. On a scale of blue to red, his would not belong anywhere. Some people just have to look at themselves honestly and allow themselves to see the true beauty they possess, you know?

"Uh," the cameraman says.

The anchor keeps reporting like a champ, and the wailing finally stops.

"The leader of the free world is now equipped with large, fleshy wings, that scientists believe might actually be used for flight, especially in conjunction with massive platypus tails. The president's wingspan is approximately 42 feet when the wings are completely unfolded, thereby making him the biggest known creature to take to the skies, if he ever were to do so, which really would be just a bit too ridiculous according to our experts."

"In other news, the pope's Hell on Earth project is reportedly going along swimmingly. The proximity of the place is bringing out hitherto unknown qualities in humans, according to scientists. Latest reports suggest that we may have been the demons all along."

"In related news, pope Boniface is currently waging a bloody war throughout Italy, as the mafia has started an uprising in retaliation for the pope's decision to stop selling absolution. He has also decided to spread Christianity throughout the cosmos, thereby becoming the space pope as prophesized."

* * *

Mr. Freeze saunters onto the massive screen in the Wayne Manor living room.

"We will now be showing It's a Wonderful Life: The Porn Parody."

Bruce hates himself just a little more as he feels the all too familiar unwanted stirrings.

"Do we really have to watch this?"

Zatanna nods gravely.

"Yes. Absolute control of this house and all its inhabitants is my price for helping you out with this mystical problem."

The Joker plays the trombone somewhere in the distance.

"Does he really have to live with us?"

"Yes. My apprentice is integral to my plans. Now shush."

The sultry, robotic voice keeps coming from the screen.

"Right after that comes A Christmas Carol: The Porn Parody, starring me as all sorts of sexy ghosts."

Bruce hides his head in his hands and sobs.

"How can one man be so goddamn sexy?"

* * *

"This just in! It seems the world thinks less of America now than it did a month ago, for some reason that includes drone strikes, according to scientists. With us here in the studio is an expert."

The anchor turns to the expert.

"Do you have any idea why this would be, John?"

"Not a clue, John. Not a single...fucking...clue. It's probably just some sort of crazy terrorist logic, maybe? It's like they don't realize we're the good guys, or something."

"What do you think the president's next step should be?"

"Well, I think the only logical course of action would be to step up the attacks. Murder a few more people, see if that doesn't calm them down. Use terror to fight terror. Though of course it's not really terror if we do it. Not at all."

The anchor nods gravely.

"This just in: The president has just announced that there will be no more drone strikes. It seems he will be taking over the drone's duties to save taxpayer money and add a personal touch to the victims' final moments."

Both the anchor and expert wipe tears from their eyes as they watch footage of the president soaring through the skies, disappearing into the horizon.

"God bless, you beautiful American hero. God bless us all. Each and every single one."

"Make 'em bleed, sir."

* * *

Batman grunts as he trudges down the hall, wondering just what is going on and how he got there. He can't remember though. It's a tough life, it truly is.

"Clowns. Everywhere."

It is true. There are countless clowns milling about. They giggle ceaselessly.

"It's not funny."

There are green clocks on the wall. Their faces smirk down at him.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," say the riddlers. "What question can you never answer with yes?"

He grabs his head and groans.

"Argh. Justice. Justice!"

The potted plants bear fruit, heavy little fiery-haired heads rolling about.

"The cleansing fire will come," they chant.

He steps on nature's face, crushing it underfoot. It sprouts right back up. He snarls.

"Justice."

Further down there is a little scarecrow hanging on a crucifix. It raises its head and stitched lips whisper.

"Some things refuse to stay buried. Here is a land where only the dead may live."

It starts wrenching its nailed limbs free.

"Justice," he murmurs hatefully as he turns his back on the thing.

There is a cat with a human face sitting in his armchair. He refuses to acknowledge its existence, though he flips a finger in its general direction.

"Where is all the justice?"

Suddenly Batman wakes up in a comfy bed.

"What a dream!"

"Holy mackerel, Batman."

But it is not sweet, sweet Robin who speaks. No, it is Killer Moth. And he is smiling and braiding Batman's hair. He has finally found a friend.

* * *

Up above the world the Calendar Man smiles, playfully moving the story to another date. Thinks he's so damn cute, the jerk. The story is now taking place on New Year's Eve, completely bypassing X-mas. That son of a gun! He got us good this time. He winks mischievously.

The news room is empty of people. Instead there are two hyenas. They have party hats on. In their gaping jaws rest party horns. There is a countdown on the screen. 10!

9! Tongues flapping everywhere.

8! So furry!

7! What cuddly creatures.

6! One cocks its head to the side.

5! How the hell do the party horns even stay put?

4! All stubby teeth and saliva, argh, so cute.

3! That's right, they're looking at you buster, looking straight into your heart and filling it with emotions you didn't even know existed.

2! Uh-oh, looks like they're getting ready to do something even cuter than just exist.

1! Better prepare yourself, alright?

AAAAAAGH! Party horns blowing! Aaaaah! Jesus Christ! Your television just exploded in a burst of flaming cuteness overload. God damn. Do those furry pieces of shit not know what that thing cost? Yeah, they probably do. They just don't care, the heartless beasts.

If your television hadn't exploded you would now be directed to the screen behind them, which is dispensing all sorts of fascinating news. Thankfully these words are made of sterner stuff than screens, so you can read all about it anyway.

* * *

Up in the skies a majestic creature glides in the night sky somewhere far from the land of freedom. It is a mythical beast known only as a President. It slowly descends on a peaceful village on a mountainside.

A few minutes later the triumphant champion of freedom stands upon a pile of bodies, basking in the first rays of the sun and victory. He fills his lungs with air, then releases it along with some sounds.

"Top of the world, ma!"

* * *

A clown plays a jolly tune on his accordion, beaming a smile down at his grumpy friend. Said grumpy friend considers breaking his one rule but then decides: Nah.

"Did you have to give him an accordion? Did he need to get a present?"

Zatanna shakes her head at him.

"Clowns need love too, Bruce."

He gnashes his teeth.

"I don't. Care. About. The clowns."

"In other news, my mystical mumbo jumbo isn't being very successful. I'm starting to think discarding the unborn children idea completely may be wise."

Bruce slumps to the ground, with dramatic accordion music in the background.

"Zatanna. Help me now, Zatanna. I'm going crazy. I hate clowns. Love justice."

"Jeez, I'm working on it, ok? I have a few leads. Like that machine down in your cave, it's giving all sorts of weird vibes."

He looks up, pushing the clown's face out of his so he can see the magician.

"What, my Justice-Dreamer machine? I don't see how that could possibly have anything to do with this problem."

She shrugs.

"Alright, alright. We'll look at something else, then."

* * *

The Calendar Man is back to his same old tricks. It is now X-mas. That damn rascal. Think you're so damn clever, don't you? Just you wait, buster. Just. You. Wait. We're going on a date, you and I. That's right, I'm putting it in your schedule right now. And we all know you can't miss a date. Not so smug now, are you? Heh. Heh. That's right. Get lost, you ass. Be seeing you. Wink, wink, flirt, flirt.

The camera shows everyone's favorite furry quadrupeds in the newsroom. They have their tongues out, but their professional eyes stay trained on the camera. A video runs on the screen behind them, showing the news. Something about corruption in America being at an all-time low due to the mysterious murder of every single lobbyist. But who cares about that when there are adorable creatures like Bud and Lou around? Nobody, that's who.

* * *

Back in reality, or fiction as it is more commonly known, Thomas Wayne raises his hand. It is bloody and shivering, like his whole body. He gurgles, as his son cries above his prone, bleeding body.

"It's okay, Bruce. Don't be afraid."

He coughs up a liter or two of blood, cringing at the unfathomable pain he is probably going through and his little son is undoubtedly imagining in vivid detail.

"I have something to say, Bruce."

His fumbling, pale hand pats his son on the face, smearing it crimson. It is a heartfelt moment, for sure.

"I'm so proud of you."

Tearful eyes look down at him with love. He chuckles bloodily. Then he pulls himself up, moving his face so that it is only inches from the little boy's.

"Heh, heh, heh."

He smiles incredibly, ruby lips inching slowly upwards on his pale face. His eyes are tiny dots of warm, fatherly mirth and jovial pride.

"Merry bloody Christmas, Bruce."

* * *

AN: Yeah, you just read that. I'm sorry. I really am. I also apologize because I promised a special someone this wouldn't get too ridiculous and Batman wouldn't go too insane. But it seems I just can't help myself. Sorry, man.

In other news, I'm starting to think making this into a never-ending story might be a good idea. Because beginnings and endings are such dull things.


	9. Deus Ex Muck-Up

Batman sits in his dark cave, brooding over files. There has been a murder. He scowls and his teeth grind up and down. He clenches his fists, biting hard on his lower lip. He fumes and grunts, shaking both fists upwards. His eyes are raging pools of fire. He bellows.

"Jus-tice!"

There is a loud and melodramatic sigh off to the side.

"No one appreciates me," moans an old voice.

The Batman ignores it, focusing instead on perfecting his body, because it is a weapon. A weapon in the eternal fight against crime, the filth that flutters between the shadows at night. And weapons must be sharp. So as to better cut through the problem like a knife through butter.

"No one pays me attention," says the old voice.

He shakes his head, muttering darkly.

"Crime!"

There is yet another sigh. Heavy, righteous eyes swing in their sockets to view the old man responsible for these sounds.

"What is it, Alfred? Has someone done you wrong?"

The old man smiles slightly stupidly.

"Just realized I feel totez adorbsz about that, friend."

Steel-hard eyes show just a hint of pity and a slew of obvious signs of a wanton need for dispensing justice.

"Did someone poison you, Alfred?" He pauses. Broods. "Was it the clown?"

Alfred stumbles lazily over to the Bat-computer and seats himself firmly on the expensive equipment. Snippets from Batman's private journal are sent to random contacts all over town. A hint of red plays upon the vigilante's rough cheeks, part righteous fury, part righteous embarrassment. He grinds his teeth and shakes a fist at the roof. The sounds of a spirited game of 52 pickup can be heard.

"Damn you, magic clown!"

Alfred is slowly starting to slide off of the computer. Batman watches stoically as the butler tries to express his predicament.

"World saving for the minsunderstanding of everything that verv existest, yo."

"Yes, Alfred. I'm here."

The old man slowly drops into the Batman's lap before sliding just as slowly down onto the floor.

"LIke, totally beyond compreshension kinds of suspcious, right?"

"What do you mean? I am a model of mental health!"

Hugo's toothy smile lights up the shadows in the background. Alfred winks conspiratorially at his master and gesticulates wildly, using sign language far beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.

"Yeh, heh, don worry, eyes are keeping up to eyes, straight up staring at each other like a toatl staring creep is what."

"I don't understand, old chum." His eyes darken. "You did not just call justice creepy, did you?"

Alfred looks slightly sleepy on the cold, stone floor.

"Eyes all around, keeping watch over pretty much everyone." The Batman's eyes light up in revelation. "SO no worries."

He rises, oblivious to Alfred's conversational charm.

"Yes, Alfred. It's brilliant. I know what must be done."

The old man scratches his head as he stares after the master.

"AND STUFF?"

Steph appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking slightly confused.

"Is Alfred drunk?"

Batman spares her a single, split-second glance of disdain.

"No. He's been poisoned. Please watch over him."

"Wha? Do you know who did it?"

The Batman scoffs, and she cringes.

"Alright, alright, sorry. You're the Batman. Who was it?"

"It was Ra's. He's right there."

He points behind him with his thumb, where Ra's al Ghul has just appeared, filthy drunk and wearing nothing but his underwear. He is offering Alfred more drinks. Steph stares.

"You want me to babysit two old, drunk guys?"

But the Batman is already gone. She turns around just in time to see the drunk, old men disappearing into the caves.

* * *

The Calendar Man fidgets in his themed suit. He nervously rings the doorbell. The door pops open immediately. There is a man in a green dress standing in the doorway. The dress is stunning. Calendar Man is quiet. Stunned, probably.

"Good evening," says the man.

Calendar Man clears his throat.

"You look…stunning."

The man nods.

"Tell me about it."

There is a short, completely natural silence.

"So…"

The man ignores the smooth-talker's words.

"I want to go to the Iceberg Lounge."

Calendar Man winces.

"But my street cred…"

He is met with a serious case of the murder eyes.

"…can only go up, I guess."

* * *

Ivy's Autoslithermobiles officially opens for business this day, as the Calendar Man could have told you years in advance. The company offers cheap vehicles for all members of society. Those who refuse the offer are visited by Slitherwheels. And anyone who has been visited by a pack of Slitherwheels can tell you it is no cakewalk. Far from it, in fact.

The owner and only employee, Poison Ivy, looks like she means business, wearing a stately, organic top hat. The cameras flash and the crowd roars. Scantily clad beefcakes and Nightwing drape themselves seductively on the hoods of the Slitherwheels, only occasionally falling through. All is well.

The Penguin stands at the back of the crowd, looking displeased. He is wearing a regal fur coat, and a golden cane with a penguin handle. Children are pestering him, but he pays them no heed. Without looking at them, he appeases them by handing out monocles and cigars. He plots his next move.

* * *

"Wine for, uh… you?"

"No, thank you, I'm trying to cut down on my drinking," the man in the green dress says as he snatches the bottle and takes a swig.

The Calendar Man looks slightly uncomfortable, but seems to have mostly resigned himself to his ridiculous fate. The other patrons at the Lounge have even stopped staring at him.

"So uh, what exactly do you do?"

The man in green twirls a strand of dirty hair.

"Not much. Occasionally I ruin people's hopes and dreams. Do I look pretty?"

The only word running through the Calendar Man's mind is "sexay" for some strange reason, but he manages to suppress it.

"You have lovely eyes," he hisses through clenched teeth. "And the bags under your eyes are no less charming. Do you not sleep well? I know a man who could help."

The self-insert drunkenly pretends to play a piano.

"Important people rarely have time for sleep."

Calendar Man nods enthusiastically.

"I like your hair. Though it would be even prettier if someone trimmed it. I know a man who could help."

Green dress man's interest is piqued.

"Do tell."

The Calendar Man scribbles down an address and slides it across the table. But the other man is gone. He is across the room, helping people to their seats as he clumsily helps himself to their wallets. The people look a bit peeved.

"What are you doing?"

"I am a perfect gentleman," replies the man as he returns with a few broken fingers. Retrieving the slip of paper proves an arduous task, but it is accomplished through idiotic perseverance.

"You look like you could use some medical attention. The same man could help. He's a surgeon of sorts."

Eyelashes flutter flirtatiously.

"That sounds much too complicated."

Suddenly the man in green disappears.

"Uh," says the super-villain.

The man in the green dress has reappeared in shrunken form, perched atop his date's shoulder with the air of a somewhat crazed monkey.

"Hmm," he says, and starts crawling.

The Calendar Man looks with disdain at the creature.

"What are you doing?"

"Sleepy," comes a low voice from inside his ear, tickling madly. His eyes widen with fear and his hands claw at his ear. But the self-insert has already inserted himself into the man's head.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god, get out, get out!"

The Calendar Man claws frantically, his breath coming in hard gasps. The other patrons are staring.

"So warm," the self-insert murmurs as he prods the matter around him. "Just gonna lie here. Just for a second or so," he trails off as he curls himself up in the warm brain matter and nods off.

The Calendar Man sobs and shivers.

* * *

Pope Boniface holds mass in his outrageously magnificent cathedral. There are a few people listening.

"Hallelujah!"

The congregation raise their hands. The gargantuan pope claps his hands, the sound thundering through the cathedral.

"My children! Follow Jesus, and Jesus will follow back, should your blog be worthy. Hallelujah!"

He flips eagerly through his bible with clumsy fingers, his jutting teeth making it appear as though he were smiling. Soon he gives up, closing the good book and looking up at his flock with beaming eyes.

"Amen."

Suddenly the doors to the church are blown open. A troupe of rowdy mobsters swarms inside, machine guns at the ready. Bullets are sprayed. And Killer Croc smiles.

He spreads out his hands and lo! From above there comes a heavenly tune!

The bullets tear into the giant, bathing the altar in red. He falls with a thud.

But behold! There comes another heavenly tune and the blood slowly rises into the air, forming letters written in the mighty Comic Sans: "Lamb only, plz."

And the lord almighty showeth his power! Watch the scaled pope rise!

But hold! Man replies with his own, considerable might, lighting up the lord's house with his majestic boomsticks. The giant falls.

Lo! Yet another heavenly tune, and a pillar of light! The humongous pope rises once more!

The godfather's men attack once more! The pope falls!

God changes his tune. Behold the Yakety Sax! The pope rises, but the mobsters open fire! The pope rises, he falls, he rises, smiling graciously throughout. This goes on for the better part of a day. If this doesn't get him sainthood, god himself will eat a hat. He will eat all the hats.

* * *

There is one guard outside the White House. He looks bored and slightly afraid. He looks on with befuddlement and disdain as a man in a horrendous Hawaiian shirt and absurdly tight jeans approaches.

"I'm here to meet Victor."

The guard's expression changes to blank.

"Oh. Alright. Just head on inside. He'll find you."

"Thank you kindly."

He enters the White House. Through empty room after empty room the man treads. Where, oh where can this hair stylist be? From the shadows, eyebrows wag conspiratorially. The man enters a great hall, filled with boring paintings and other exquisite artwork. He pilfers an especially pretty vase, struggling to hide them in his jeans. He puts on his best innocent voice.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Whoosh!

"What the-?"

Suddenly there is a great and mighty flap of wings and something fills the air, swooping down at a great speed.

Stabbidy-stab goes the knife. "Aaargh!" screams the self-insert. "Skreeee!" screeches the president. The majestic creature tackles its prey to the ground, stabbing it repeatedly, as pterodactyls with massive platypus tails are wont.

Somewhere in the gardens of Wayne Manor, Alfred and Ra's al Ghul take it easy in the sun, along with two hyenas. They all wear sunglasses, and all are smoking joints. Stephanie enters the scene.

"The fudge are you guys doing?"

Bud and Lou laugh in her face.


	10. Sleuths and Songs to Move the Heart

AN: Limpid tears bathe my face, friends. Does no-one feel the need to request characters? Is there no-one who feels a burning desire deep within their bounteous souls, a secret wish to see Captain Stingaree or Polka-Dot Man emerge from the shadows and bathe themselves in the glorious sunlight? I cannot believe it. I refuse to believe it.

* * *

Stephanie steps forward, anger etched on her face. But in the thick cloud of smoke she loses her way, and both old men and hyenas fade from view. She stumbles, falls, crawls onward.

"Help! Someone?"

Through the haze she can hear the sound of large animals grazing, and a banjo being plucked masterfully.

"Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam."

The fog clears, and the musician comes into view. It is a bald man in a lab coat. Though she would have known that voice anywhere. She shakes her fist, muttering darkly.

"Strange!"

"Isn't it just?"

She rears her head to see this new nuisance. It is the Mad Hatter, lying on the back of a buffalo, cowboy boots adorning his feet. He is smiling, with a straw in his mouth.

"And what the hell are you doing?"

He tips his hat upward and looks down his nose at her.

"I am a cowboy."

She stares at him with sadness and confusion. The holiest of ideas has just been trampled under foot.

"But-but you can't be a cowboy. You don't look like a cowboy at all. And you don't have a horse. And you like tea parties. And you don't exactly have the best grip on reality."

He smiles harder.

"And you do?"

Hugo croons in the background.

"Oh, don't fence me in."

She shrugs in surrender. The Hatter pulls out a revolver and empties it into her.

"Agh, god dang it! What the heck?"

He smiles apologetically down at her.

"Just doing my job, ma'am."

She looks up from her new spot on the ground. His costume has morphed into a blend of a police uniform and a cowboy outfit.

"What is that?"

He flashes a golden badge. An inscription on it reads: I am the law.

"I am a cowboy-cop. I have found my purpose in life."

She shakes her head as she struggles to her feet.

"Nope. Doesn't exist. And you'd be a terrible cop. The worst cop."

His buffalo trots lazily past her and on the way he casually sprays a can of mace in her face.

"Aaargh!"

She tumbles to the ground once more, rubbing helplessly at her eyes.

"Still not enough! Not good enough to be a cop! You suck!"

His buffalo kneels with a smile, allowing him to lean over and taze her prone form. As she convulses she gives him the thumbs up.

"Alright, alright, you'd be a good cop. Jeez, cut it out already."

He smiles, and relents. His outfit beams with pride. This is what it's all about.

* * *

The Batman crouches by a strange carcass.

"Mr. President, when did you find the victim?"

Zsasz scratches his head, his wings cumbersome.

"A paparazzi told me, just an hour ago. He too was murdered shortly thereafter."

The Batman's brow furrows.

"Hmmm."

The corpse lies on its face, butt sticking proudly up. The hands are twisted in some inexplicable manner, entwining around one another no less than three times. In the nether regions the unmistakable outline of a stolen vase or majestic equipment can be seen.

"666 stab wounds. Probably. It's hard to tell where one ends and another begins."

He scratches his chin.

"Whoever did this was a professional. This was a hit. Clean and methodical. I just need to find out who this man was."

The victim suddenly moves. It rolls onto its back.

"Urgl."

Through unholy will the bloodied creature raises a hand and starts drawing idiotic symbols onto the floor with its blood.

"Death spasms. Air passes through the body, causing it to move and try to speak. Please, do not be alarmed."

The president pulls out a bloody knife.

"Oh, but I am a sensitive soul. Do you mind?"

He puts the knife to the victim's throat.

"Well, it's highly unusual. But I suppose exceptions can be made, for exceptional men."

Zsasz starts sawing the head off. The Batman blocks out the noise as he stares down at the messy crime scene.

"If only you could speak."

He clenches a fist and looks sorrowfully at the fallen man.

"Who were you?"

Finally the head is off. Zsasz drops it off to the side.

"All done."

The Batman stands, arms crossed on his chest.

"Who has access to the White House other than you, Mr. President?"

The president taps bloody fingers on his chin, deep in thought.

"Usually I am alone in here. But the occasional paparazzi can get in. And my bodyguards are sometimes outside."

The Batman's eyes light up as his deductive talent and mighty intellect combine to form an idea.

"Could you call in one of your bodyguards?"

The president shrugs his shoulders and sets off. Twenty minutes later he returns with a man in black.

"I could only find one. The others have all been murdered, by the same killer no doubt."

The Batman sets to work, raining blows on the special services man. Between the blows he bellows.

"Where is it?"

Thud!

"Who are you?"

Crack!

"Why did you do it?"

Hit!

"Are you the Joker?"

Break!

"Did the Joker do it?"

Smash!

"Where is he?"

Facial reconstruction!

"Swear to me!"

The detective and the president stand over the unconscious secret service man, the former breathing heavily.

"This looks like it's going to be a tough case." He pants. "But I have at least ascertained that the murder weapon was a hammer or a sickle. Possibly both."

The president looks at him with a trusting smile.

"Thank you, Batman. Your help has been invaluable."

The Batman wipes sweat from his face.

"I will be continuing this investigation. But in the meantime, please go about your business as usual."

The two men shake hands firmly. The still warm blood on Zsasz' hand smears onto the Batman's. Batman embraces the president.

"Stay strong."

Zsasz pats him on the back.

"I will, Batman."

* * *

The Penguin walks down the street, his cane drumming on the pavement with every step. He is surrounded by a cloud of smoke, from his own cigar and the cigars of the gang of children following him.

"Well, boys, it seems this city has gone completely mad at last."

His face darkens, though it's hard to tell through the smoke. Only his legs are visible beneath the grey cloud.

"And no-one remembers the Penguin any more. Waugh! Not mad?"

He lashes out, his cane laying low a passer-by.

"I'll show them mad!"

He throws his cigar at an elderly lady sitting on a bench. It fixes itself firmly between her lips and she starts puffing happily away.

"Fah!"

Immediately the children stand on each other's shoulders, forming two human towers. One tower supplies a cigar, the other lights it, all without missing a single step. This assignment completed, the towers disassemble once more. The Penguin raises a hand.

"Stay here, boys. You there!"

He points a stubby finger at a man eating two-faced ice cream. The man freezes in his tracks as the Penguin approaches.

"Do you know who I am?"

The man swallows nervously, nods. The Penguin raises his arms and starts flapping them up and down. He circles the man repeatedly, his head swinging back and forth with every step.

"Cock-a-doodle-do! Are you not afraid, peasant? A-doodle-do!"

The man trembles so that he drops his ice cream to the ground. He immediately follows suit, sobbing uncontrollably over his wasted delicacy.

"Waugh, waugh, waugh! Farewell, my little bottom-feeder. Never forget who reduced you to this."

He takes a step forward before looking over his shoulder.

"It was the Penguin."

The Penguin trots away merrily, his band of smoking urchins following. But through his monocle he can see the other pedestrians. And they do not look the least bit impressed. They are in fact not looking at all. He harrumphs. Then, with surprising agility, he clambers up a tree and perches himself out on a branch.

"You there! You vermin who populate this street! I am the Penguin, and I am a crazed villain, dangerous beyond compare."

He turns his head 180 degrees, his wide eyes focusing on a chihuahua.

"Hoot! Hoot!"

He jumps off the branch, gliding swiftly through the air. He swoops down on his prey and grabs the little dog between his polished shoes, making off with it into the sky. He returns to his branch, reveling in the terror on the owner's face and the confusion among the rest of the people.

"Waugh, waugh, waugh! Look on me, ye filthy, and despair!"

* * *

Zsasz enters one of his many rooms, drawn to the sounds of a rowdy bar. There is a man with a tiny mustache sitting at one of the tables, a glass of sparkly in his hand.

"Who are you?"

The stranger looks up at the president with drunken humor.

"Me? They call me Matches. Matches Malone."

The president tries to raise an eyebrow, before remembering they are at a peace conference somewhere.

"What are you doing here?"

The man takes a long sip of his drink.

"I'm out of work at the moment, so I'm just having a good time, keeping an ear open for jobs and rumors."

The president stares at the boisterous man.

"But this is the White House."

Matches ignores the comment.

"You haven't heard of anything…weird happening around here, have you?"

Zsasz is quiet a moment.

"No. But I know a man who has. Hold on."

He returns momentarily, a bloody head in his hands. He puts it down on Matches' table.

"There you go. Enjoy yourselves. I will be around, if anything should go wrong."

Matches raises his glass in appreciation. The president leaves.

"So. I'm told you've got a story to tell."

The head does not answer, though its half-open eyes seems to be mocking him.

"I see. Maybe I better buy you a drink first, eh?"

A rum and coke now in front of it, Matches steels himself for a story. Minutes pass.

"You're a quiet one, friend. Could it be that…guilt... has rendered you mute?"

There is no answer.

"I've seen it before. You think you're tough, that nothing can scare you. But then something happens. It's not your first kill. But for some reason this one is different. It leaves you shaken. You can't think straight. You're always tired. And then come the dreams. Everything changes. You don't know who you are anymore. The money doesn't seem worth it. Neither girls nor drink can make you forget. You see that face, over and over again, wherever you turn. You pray to a god you've never believed in before. If he does exist, he's not answering. You give away your money, but it doesn't help. You try to do good, but deep down you think you're the scum of the earth. No matter how you try you can't escape it. There's always that voice, that insufferable voice, telling you how much it hates you, how little your life is worth. You shave every hair off your body as penance, but then you just get cold. You buy rich furs to keep you warm, you turn the heat up, but nothing helps. Do you know why? It's because the cold is coming from within. It's your heart. It's crying, and those tears are cold, my friend. But no matter how much you water your pillow, it doesn't grant you forgiveness. You design a byzantine machine to spank you throughout the night, rough, rotating paddles smacking you for hours on end. But no matter how kinky, ridiculous or painful it gets, your reddened cheeks don't soothe your soul. Yes, it's rough. Believe you me, I've seen it all before. You send embarrassing photos of yourself to everyone you know, so that your isolation and penance can become complete. But that don't wash the blood off your hands, it don't. You write a terrible novel, publish it under your own name, expecting to be torn to shreds by the critics. But guess what? It's a best-seller, buddy. Soon you're swimming in the money. But it chafes. Boy, does it chafe. And you're not seeing old Benjamin's face. No, you're looking at the face that haunts your every waking moment. You try to shake off the money, but the bills are stuck to you like glue. The face opens its mouth, gnawing at your very being. And that's not the worst of it. The face now loves you. It has forgiven you. But your heart? Yeah, that's right, it's never gonna let you forget. You try to kill yourself, but the bullets won't come. The guns sprout flowers. Beautiful flowers. Before you know it you've become a painter, and your paintings of nature become a hit. Your name will live on in history, as the name of the best artist who ever lived. Finally you crack, you try to admit your crime to the police. But it's too late, my friend. They make you an honorary member. As you leave the station, your mother calls. She has suddenly given birth to an exact replica of you. The prophets arrive and tell you this new man will have the exact same life as you. He will make all the same mistakes, make all the same breakthroughs, suffer the same as you have. Before long you will meet. You will fall in love with each other's misery. You will spend your nights spilling hot candle wax over each other and crying. And it will never stop hurting. No matter how much you snuggle up to your clone, your soul-mate in suffering. Unless you get it off your chest right now."

The head says nothing. Malone bristles.

"I see. You don't respect me enough, is that it? Think you're too tough for me? Well, you got another thing coming."

He lunges for the head and starts brawling with it.

"Raaagh!"

Ten minutes later he is back in his seat, panting. He sports a black eye, but the head is in worse shape.

"You're a tough one, I'll give you that."

He pants, downs his drink.

"Wooh! Lemme buy you a drink, bud. Then you can tell me your story. I think we both agree I've earned it."

He returns with a drink. He sets it before the head. But it does not spill. He regards it coldly.

"Hold that thought, bud. I'mma powder my nose."

He walks away. But as soon as he is out of the head's line of sight, he pounces! Chloroform is pushed against the suspect's face, and it is the Batman's voice that is growling in his ear! How long has the vigilante been listening? Who can tell?

"Where is he? Where is the Joker?"

There is a short struggle, but soon the Batman removes the cloth. He picks the head up and crams it into his utility belt.

"I have ways of making you talk," he growls.


	11. Toes and Tongues and Other Trifles

Screams come from the alleyway. There is a pretty man, a boy-next-door kind of feel to him, maybe he's a part-time model or something, no, doesn't matter, all you need to know is that shit be fine. He is held at knife-point by a pretty ordinary woman. She is flanked by two rather ugly children wielding large machetes. Amidst ye olde shadows the Batman lurks, trying desperately to find his batarangs.

"Ya see these two brutes?" The woman speaks in a thuggish voice. "They're gonna kill ya! But not before I'm done killing ya!"

God damn it! Did Alfred forget to pack the batarangs again? Just perfect.

"I don't understand," says the pretty man, whimpering in a sexualized tone. The art renders him in a ridiculous manner, all lean muscles and bounteous booty sticking out in an anatomically puzzling sort of way.

Batman takes the severed head in his hand, feeling slightly guilty as he looks down at it.

"I'm gonna kill ya, baby!" The woman looks deliriously into the whole thing. "I'm gonna kill ya till you're dead!"

Batman closes his eyes, swings the head around for momentum. He shrugs. When in Rome…

"But why?" The man poses seductively. "I don't even know you." His shirt tears open for no apparent reason, and his eyes brim with tears. "Why?"

Oh, hell, wait. That doesn't work. The Romans weren't exactly known for their love of decapitated heads, were they?

"Cuz I'm a gritty street criminal!"

Ah, come on. Think, think!

"Yarrr!"

When in Gaul?

"Any minute now, I'm gonna kill ya!"

Sure, close enough. When in Gaul…

"Blood! Blood! Bloooood!"

The head flies. It soars majestically. Then it lands, with a mighty crack, straight in the woman's face. She slumps to the ground. It is a clean knockout. The children screech at the sight of the bloody thing rolling toward them and run away. The pretty man does not stop posing. Batman steps up sheepishly.

"Sorry, guys. Sorry."

He picks the head up again, throws a few guilty looks around, and vanishes in an embarrassed manner.

* * *

Man-Bat lights a smoke and downs a bottle of cheap vodka as he conducts the jeep down the wrong side of traffic.

"This is a really stupid idea, MB."

He looks over at his buddy, Great White Shark. He is wearing a magnificent Hawaiian shirt.

"Skree," he tells his buddy dejectedly.

"I'm serious. This is the dumbest thing I've done in a long time."

They ram a school bus off the road. Man-Bat experiences some road rage, screeching this way and that.

"Setting up a team to dispense some street justice sounded like a pretty good idea at the time, but I'm starting to think you have no idea whatsoever what justice means. And we're not getting picked up for a reality TV show any time soon. So I'm not really making any money."

Man-Bat spreads his wings, raising the army jeep off the ground for a few seconds.

"Skree!"

"No, man, I'm not just in it for the money. I got soul. You know I do."

Man-Bat puts another cigarette in his mouth, screeching under his breath.

"Yeah, sure, 'Nam really messed you up. I'm familiar with your new persona. You've told me a hundred times now."

Man-Bat takes a little picture off his neck, shows it to Great White with tears in his eyes.

"Yes, yes. They killed your wife. I know. You do realize that's a picture of Marilyn Monroe, though, right? No producer is ever going to believe your story."

Suddenly the grizzled Man-Bat takes a sharp turn into an alleyway. They arrive just as Batman is leaving, making it look like they might just have scared him off, maybe. A pretty man is pressed against the wall sexily while a woman is lying on the street, an imprint of a face pressed into her own.

"Skree!"

Man-Bat poses heroically and both the pretty man and the weird-faced woman wrap themselves around him, looking up at him with longing.

"Oh, Man-Bat! If only there could be…more of you."

Great White Shark flicks an imaginary speck of dust off his Hawaiian shirt, coughing.

"Yeah, I'm gonna… Gonna take a walk or something. Way, way, waaaay over there, maybe a few states away from you guys."

He sets off into the sunset, walking down a sleazy alley, having tortured thoughts and whatnot. Credits roll and the end song plays.

"This show sucks," he mutters under his breath.

His dark mood is interrupted before long. There is a platypus-pterodactyl of some sort up ahead, trying to stuff a bloody torso into a dumpster. The torso is wearing a glorious, stabbed to pieces, bloody Hawaiian shirt. A solitary tear trickles down his gruff face, slowly. He takes the torso from the prehistoric-or-whatever creature and hugs the sloppy remains close.

"Who-who could do such a thing? To a shirt like you?"

Mr. Zsasz and his eyebrows step aside sheepishly.

"It was…zombie freedom fighters. Except they're…uh, fighting against freedom? And everything you love."

Great White looks up with what might be a perplexed look on his face. Mr. Zsasz engages in some quick thinking, and raises one hand in the air.

"U! S! A!"

He pumps the hand up and down, slowly retreating out of view.

"U! S! A! U! S! A!"

The president gone, Great White seems satisfied, and carries the thing off sadly.

"Come on. Let's get you somewhere safe."

* * *

There is a cloud of smoke.

"Behold!"

Suddenly a portly face emerges from the cloud, to the gasps of a dozen street urchins.

"The duolocle! Double the monocle, double the danger, quadruple the craziness!"

Thunder rolls.

* * *

Tappety-tappety-tap.

Crazy Quilt peers around nervously. What is that blasted noise? After a second of silence, he returns to his work.

"Charming asshole is my middle name."

He blinks.

"What?"

His model flashes a winning smile.

"Just in case you were wondering why you're so attracted to me."

Crazy Quilt nods. He had been wondering.

Tap-tap.

What is that noise? Is it coming from the roof?

"How's the painting come along? Does it look French?"

Tappety-tappety-tap-tap-tap!

He ignores the sound. Seems like it's coming from the pipes this time.

"Yes, it looks very French. It's in a rococo style and I've put baguettes everywhere in the background."

Tap! Tap! Tappety!

He shudders involuntarily. His model adjusts the green cap covering his privates.

"Add a little speech bubble, just in case. Make me say 'oui' or something."

He shrugs.

"Alright, done."

Tappety-tappety-tappety.

"Good. Now blow me."

He looks up with confusion in his eyes, befuddled both by the question and the fact that he wants to comply.

"Uh."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I have sex with everything on two legs over the age limit. It's sort of my superpower."

Green Arrow winks at him. He nods in understanding.

"Right. I'm going to finish the painting first, okay?"

The hero smiles charmingly.

"Alright, hot stuff," he croons as he turns off his phone, ignoring his wife's thirteenth call that evening.

Crazy Quilt returns to his work. When suddenly! Tap-tap-tap-tap-tappety-tap! He shudders, freezes up. The noise is right in front of him. He looks up from his work. There is a line of dancers in front of him.

"Good evening, friend."

A man in a slick suit and luchador mask looks down at him. Tap-tap-tap.

"I been told you been refusing to drive the Slitherwheels, man."

Damn, that guy looks snazzy.

"I'm so-sorry! They-they just...They freak me out!"

Tappey-tappey-tap.

"That's not what I want to hear, man."

Crazy Quilt visibly trembles. He looks over at Green Arrow for an assist, but the hero still seems to be busy undressing him with his eyes.

Tap-tap.

"You gotta drive them Slitherwheels, man."

The luchador looks down at him, friendly concern for his safety oozing off him.

"I-I can't! I just can't, okay?"

Tappety-tappety-tap. The luchador shakes his head.

"Damn, man. Breaks my heart to hear that. It really does."

Crazy Quilt wipes the sweat from his brow, unable to take his eyes off the man's legs and their swift, majestic movements.

"Wh-what are you going to do?"

The luchador puts a hand to his chest.

"Me? Not a thing, ese." He shakes his hands, shooing all blame away. "I'm just gonna…"

He pulls a pair of tap-dancing shoes out from behind his back.

"Just gonna leave these right here."

He puts them on the floor. There is a shine, a...a gleam deep down in the very fiber of their being. Crazy Quilt whimpers.

"Oh. Oh, god."

The luchador shrugs.

"Just a random pair of shoes I decided I don't need anymore. But hey…"

He points between Crazy Quilt and the shoes, realization dawning on his luchador face.

"Those actually look like they might fit you, ese."

"No. No!"

Before Quilt knows it he is on his knees, clutching the beautiful, beautiful shoes.

"This isn't happening."

The fancy footwear seems to take control of his hands, the shoes slowly sliding themselves up his body. He moans in fright and forbidden pleasure. The dread team of tap-dancers carry on dancing, pretending to see nothing out of the ordinary, least of all the utter decomposition of a man's soul.

"Oh," he mutters helplessly.

The shoes rub against his cheeks. Up and down, up and down, soft at first, then roughly. He grits his teeth, sweat pouring off every inch of flesh.

"You're still up for a little fun after, right?"

Green Arrow grins hopefully, his little archer's cap rising a bit off his body. But Crazy Quilt is beyond hearing. He hisses as one of the shoes rubs up against his nostrils. He loses control, inhaling wildly, like a mighty beast hell-bent on sniffing all it can get its nasty snout on! He rubs his nose up and down and all around the finely polished shoe. He whimpers, grunts. His eyes roll in his head till only the whites show, his jaw falls open yet all its attempts at noise are stifled.

Tappety-tappety-tap-tap-tap goes the line of tap-dancers.

With one shaking hand Quilt lowers a shoe to the ground, tests its sound against the floorboards.

Tap.

Tap.

He shivers, jerks the shoe off the floor. He pants, running his tongue all over the sleek, pitch black sole.

"U-uuuhh. Uuuuuh!"

He falls back on the floor. The luchador snaps his fingers. Two tap-dancers quickly kneel by Quilt's side, taking the shoes from his needy fingers and preparing to put them on his feet. A moment passes. Then, in one fell swoop, the things are on! Crazy Quilt screams and convulses, his back arching off the floor and his fingers and toes clenching.

"Yaaaaaaah! We know all our tomorrows! The dogs are dead! They're dead! Diamonds are a girl's best friend, you come second!"

This outburst of arcane wisdom over, his convulsing body rises, wide eyes staring through everyone present, frothing mouth spewing thick spittle capable of emotions. He jerks around the floor in a crazed little dance, his head flopping back and forth with every step.

Tap! Tap! Tappety! Tap!

The gorgeous shoes smash through the floorboards, the splinters and debris not managing to make a single scratch on the beautiful beasts. He runs his nails over his face, drawing blood.

"AAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Suddenly he stops, hunched over and short of breath. The luchador tap-dances over to him, handing him tongs and a rusty knife. Crazy Quilt nods, whispers to the air.

"Hello. Goodbye."

He sticks out his trembling tongue. The tap-dancing team draws out castanets, lending ambient music to the ritual. Crazy Quilt grabs hold of the tongue with his tongs. Then the rusty knife is put to cutting.

"Uh!"

The first drops of red fall.

"Uh-uh-huh!"

Tears and snot pour down his face. The knife keeps cutting.

"Aah!"

It makes short, slow, painful work of it.

Plop.

The bloody thing twitches on the ground. Amid the sound of sirens the men tap-dance out of there, their new member leading the way. The room is quiet.

"Hello-o?"

Green Arrow guffaws incredulously.

"I got a shaft in need of polishing over here!"

His gaze falls on the tongue of the floor. On his face there is evident a great internal struggle.

* * *

Batman walks through the GCPD headquarters with a severed head dangling from his hand. He then walks past Gordon's office instead of going inside, deciding he's too tired for a chat right now. He and the head leave.

"Laters," he mutters in his grim voice.

Inside the office, Harvey Bullock, looking like his old self, stares after the Batman with horror.

"Commish, are you seein' what I'm seein'? I told ya he was crazy, I told ya! Are you seein' this?"

Gordon looks up slowly.

"Who are you?"

Bullock stares back.

"Whaddaya mean?"

New Bullock suddenly pops in.

"Oh, shit!"

He runs away in the blink of an eye. Gordon shrugs, then smiles at old Bullock.

"So where have you been, Harvey?"

Bullock scratches his head as he tries to understand what just happened.

"Uh. I've been away exercising, y'know, like…"

"Keep it to yourself, Bullock."

Gordon has blissfully turned back to his work, doodling copious amounts of mustached genitalia in his notebook. Bullock shakes his head.

"I been thinking about that. Why we gotta keep these feelings bottled up, keep them to ourselves? Why not just…"

He leans over the commissioner.

"…Let it all out?"

He grabs Gordon's tie. Gordon sips his coffee.

"I don't know what reality you're from, Bullock, but this sort of thing is not going to happen here."

A secretary enters. Gordon's eyes go wide.

"Oops," starts the cold, cold voice. "Looks like I spilled hot, hot coffee all over my tight, naughty machinery."

Gordon can't breathe.

"Ohmigod."

The blinds to the office are drawn.

* * *

He gets down on one knee. Her breath hitches. Everyone in the outside area of the restaurant goes quiet, looking on happily. He smiles up at her, reaching into his jacket and bringing out a little box.

"You are everything to me. You are my world. Will you…"

Suddenly, from around the corner, a huge humanoid reptile with a pope hat floats into view. His little cherub wings struggle to keep him in the air, his flight pattern sluggish and random. From inside his trench coat he pulls a deadly-looking longbow and takes aim. He roars and lets fly.

"All you need is love-ah!"

The arrow pierces the kneeling man's back, coming out on the other side, accompanied by a spurt of blood. The shooter claps his hands happily as he sways in the air.

"Hallelujah!"

The man slumps to the ground. His love kneels by his side, tears falling freely. The dying man clutches her hand as the color leaves him.

"You know, I…I think I love you."

His head drops to the pavement. The woman starts crying in earnest, casting the occasional hurt glance at the bowman. He flutters over to her and hovers there awkwardly. He takes off his pope hat and scratches his head. He looks around at the spectators, throwing up his hands.

"My bad. Completely on me."

He stashes the bow away, laughs awkwardly.

"Still getting the hang of this, I guess."

He hovers a while longer in silence. All is quiet, apart from the unhinged bawling of the woman. She's opened the box and put the ring on her finger, her body wracked with sobs. The pope clears his throat.

"Ahem."

Then he gives her a friendly pat on the shoulder, breaking it.

"There are other fish in the sea, aight?"

* * *

The traffic in downtown Gotham stops. An old man with a mighty white beard is descending from the heavens. He saunters slowly down, flaunting his stuff like only a select few can. He sets foot on the pavement, and his audience can finally see him more closely. He nods his head knowingly. He is big and old, a huge bulge in the front of his swan dress. A terrified woman covers a random person's eyes.

"Jesus Christ!"

The old man laughs.

"Who cares about that loser, when you got the main man around, baby?"

He starts walking down the street, hips swaying hypnotically.

"The big boss of it all. Mm-hm."

He stops before a bewildered woman, his fingers caressing her jawline.

"You're attracted to power, aint'cha, sweetheart? Hah! Like I even need to ask."

He keeps walking, leans up to another woman and whispers in her ear.

"Mm-mm, baby! You lookin' fi-ne."

God keeps walking, leaving star-struck people behind him. A prim and proper-looking guy runs up to him.

"So what's it like, being omnipotent and omniscient?"

God rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I already know how this conversation goes. Shut up forever."

He gives the guy one pat on the butt and one wink before he saunters off.

"See you around."

"But-but…"

God makes a yapping gesture with his hand as he walks away.

"Blah, blah, blah."


	12. Gutter Gods

Stephanie rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

"Whuzzawha?"

Batman sits in the darkness, his chin resting on two clenched fists. In front of him rests a severely battered severed head.

"Christ. What is that?"

He is unmoving.

"Bruce?"

He looks up at her with emotionless eyes.

"I don't know."

He stands, his gaze returning to the bloody thing.

"I can't remember the last few days."

Steph stares at it with him.

"Me neither. God, that looks…"

She turns away. A shadow passes her, and the shuffling footsteps of the Batman echo through the cave.

"I'm going to find Alfred."

She moves to follow, but is distracted by the sight of something new in the cave.

"When did we get a freezer?"

But the Batman is already gone. She steps up to the freezer. A familiar figure lies inside it.

"Oh, shit!"

She wrenches it open.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

She pulls Tim's stiff body out, lays it gently on the floor.

"Oh, god."

Her hands run over his frozen skin.

"God, oh god, oh god."

She puts her head onto a silent chest.

"Help! Bru-"

Her gaze falls on the head. Its eyes have come open. Its lips move slowly upward, and she finds herself confronted with the stupidest smile she has ever seen. It laughs breathlessly. Her eyes drop, and she reaches a shaking hand over Tim's lifeless husk. It drops midway and she sobs. She curls up on the cold floor and cries.

"God, someone help me."

* * *

Elsewhere, God is partying like there's no tomorrow. The Lord looks down upon his moves, and he sees that they are fresh. The other dancers are cowed by his prowess. They can only look upon his disco outfit and despair. Amid his wondrous moves, God catches glimpse of a real cutie. He wastes no time and becomes a swan and struts his stuff.

"Hey, babe."

The cutie does not acknowledge him. He feigns disappointment, though no-one present is capable of detecting disappointment on a swan's face.

"That one always worked."

It's all good, though. God knows. He changes into a bull and trots over to the next decent-looking thing.

"Hop on my back, babe. I won't abduct you."

This time is no more successful. He snorts and leaves some droppings on this part of the dance floor.

"Time for another flood, maybe."

He takes the form of an old man once more and shrugs.

"Oh, who am I threatening? I've already decided all your deaths. It's already happened, it's happening right now, it's yet to happen."

He sighs.

"I'm so bored."

But he rekindles his joy once more, and whips out some incredible moves. None of the witnesses will ever forget: God owns the dance floor. But suddenly there is a zombie on the dance floor. God blinks.

"What the-?"

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday."

God's dance grows less frenzied.

"What are you?"

"Solomon Grundy, poet."

God's moonwalk is hesitant.

"Bullshit."

The zombie frowns.

"Solomon Grundy, big poet, big."

God raises a confused eyebrow. Grundy raises a fig.

"Solomon Grundy, eating a fig."

The zombie's legs start moving.

"Solomon Grundy, doing a jig."

Horror dawns on God's face.

"Why don't I know everything about you?"

"Solomon Grundy, starting to dig."

The zombie whips out a shovel and starts beating it into the floor. God is sweating.

"Lucie, darling, is that you? I'm sorry I blamed you for everything, okay?"

The zombie looks like it's having a hard time keeping up its tempo.

"Solomon Grundy…" His eyes swing around in search of inspiration. "-hig."

It is in vain. God pinches his nose.

"Dear me, that's horrid."

The zombie does not look pleased by this cruel criticism. He grabs hold of the deity and hefts it into the air before promptly returning it to the ground, face first.

"Aw, hell! How is this even possible?"

God's question is not answered, unless Grundy's face-smashing is a form of communication.

"I am who I am," the deity announces in a peeved voice.

Grundy smashes his face into the floor once more.

"Hen kai pan," the deity mutters.

Smash goes the face.

"What is the meaning of this?"

His face is a mask of annoyance and confusion as it slams repeatedly into the floor.

"It's all so…pointless."

Soon the old man passes out and offers no more comments. Solomon Grundy beats god to death. Somewhere far, far away, Nietzsche smiles.

* * *

He fires two shots into the ceiling.

"Everybody down! This is a robbery!"

He turns to the bank teller.

"Didn't ya hear me?!"

Then he freezes. The teller is Man-Bat.

"Skree."

Man-Bat is wearing a suit.

"Uh."

There are little glasses perched atop his hideous nose.

"Skree."

He looks at the robber through the glass separating them, maybe with worried eyes.

"I-"

The robber lowers his gun. Man-Bat picks up a cup of tea. He drops a sugar cube into it, then another. He picks up a spoon. He stirs.

"I'll be going now."

The robber backs away. Man-Bat pours some milk into his cup. The robber leaves the bank. Man-Bat sips his tea, its deliciousness evident on his face. He puts it down. He sighs, shaking his head.

"Skree."

Yes, Man-Bat. It's a sad and beautiful world.

* * *

Penguin ushers a group of children out of his office, flabbergasted. He lights a cigar and disappears into a thick cloud of confusion, removing a deadly duolocle from his face.

* * *

"I do not know what came over me."

The room is cold and dark.

"I cannot understand it."

A gloved hand rests on chilled glass.

"I still love you, I swear it."

Tears flow from under red visors, freeze to his face. Sobbing he presses a button. The glass cage opens.

"At least the money I have made from this unusual line of employment was enough to finance your cure."

A woman steps out, her senses dulled from years of cryogenic suspension.

"Oh, Nora! I understand if you wish to leave me now."

She pats the glass of his helmet.

"Don't cry, Victor."

She shivers, hugs the bizarre outer shell of her husband.

"Though I refuse to believe any of this is real until you show me those videos."

He blushes furiously.

"I, um. Of course, dear."

* * *

Mr. Zsasz blinks at his reflection. He is mostly happy.

* * *

A clown emerges from the manor 's washing machine.

"You are my destiny!"

It is a clown of the singing variety. Very rare.

"You share my reverie!"

He looks around for a Batman.

"You are my happiness."

There is not a Batman in sight. There is a butler, though.

"That's what you are."

The butler makes a face before making himself scarce.

"You are my sweet caress."

His hands move through the empty air, mimicking the journey of fingers from pointy ears to square jaw.

"You share my loneliness."

He makes a sad face. There is no-one watching. He grins as his clown-vision zeroes in on the Batman, fifteen rooms away.

"You are my dream come true."

He winks at the empty air and proceeds with his song, regardless of the lack of a visible audience. For he knows what every modern man knows. There is always someone watching.

* * *

Black Mask looks into his hot dog cart and starts cursing and vomiting.

* * *

The phone rings cruelly. Great White Shark grimaces. Finally the noise stops. He sighs, trudges over to the fridge. He's hit simultaneously by the annoyingly bright light and the yet more hideous revelation that someone has eaten his double-flavored ice cream. He growls, slams the door to before beating the fridge repeatedly. There is a knock on the door. It opens. His face scrunches up in sincere hatred.

"What?!"

The henchman seems untroubled, which only further infuriates Great White. The phone starts ringing again. It takes controlled breathing and a good, long look at the soothing palm trees on his shirt to keep him from falling victim to spontaneous combustion.

"Is it Man-Bat again, sir?"

He flashes his sharp teeth in a pearly smile.

"No, no, it's my other stalker." A blood vessel pops. "Of course it's Man-Bat, you brain-dead, festering shit-stain!"

The blow to the henchman's self-esteem is visible to the naked eye. The phone stops and White immediately softens.

"Now spit it out. What do you want?"

The henchman tugs at his collar.

"Well, sir, it's…the business has started falling apart. We really need you back."

White's shoulders slump and a tortured groan spills through his pretty teeth. The phone starts ringing.

"Just leave me alone!"

He covers his head in his hands and runs away. He enters his boudoir and slams the door behind him, then throws himself into the warm embrace of his sofa. He sobs a little. Something dead and friendly falls on top of him. His teary eyes turn upward. He sniffles.

"Oh, my heavenly Hawaiian beauty. Only you understand me."

He rises, hugging the finely clad torso tight. He hums and soon his legs are performing a waltz. There is a knock on the door, and the ringing of the phone echoes. He hums louder. The torso hums in response. It is their song, beautiful and stalwart. His mangled face rests on the squishy shoulder.

"Make the world go away," he sighs.

* * *

Zatanna lifts her head off the floor, running a hand through her disheveled hair. She blinks and looks at the Batman for answers. He is evidently not as hung over.

"Was there a party?"

Batman wanders off.

"Guess not."

Batman steps out of sight, advancing toward a strange hammock. He touches it tentatively. Poison Ivy's voice whispers in response.

"It's alright, baby. It's alright."

Batman shakes his head. The message is not meant for him, not meant for this place. He smiles grimly. He is sure it will be delivered eventually. Maybe not here, but somewhere, through some hammock. He wipes a tear from his eye. It will be a miracle to remember.

Stephanie stands shakily over the thawing corpse of her boyfriend. Her lip trembles, her eyes are red, wide and completely dead. The severed head still smiles at her misery. She stumbles forward thoughtlessly, pale hands reaching out to a lever. She cranks the Bat-dream-machine up a notch.

* * *

Over in the real world, Killer Moth looks at the plate of delicious jelly with remorse.

"It-It wasn't me."

The office people shake their creamy white, melting heads slowly.

"It was always you."


	13. Vampire Bees

Bruce stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He grumbles as he peers around.

"Alfred! Food."

Grumpily he glares as the butler fails to appear. He cautiously picks up a pack of biscuits, but it crumbles in his hand. Wiping the crumbs off his hands he groans.

"Food."

At the third try he succeeds in putting two slices of bread into the toaster. He fetches butter from the refrigerator and grins happily at his steady pace and unquestionable progress. It is wiped off quickly and mercilessly by the toaster exploding. The butter slips from his hand and out of its packaging, making a puddle of itself on the floor. The refrigerator has suddenly lost power, and everything inside spoils at the speed of light. Bruce stands flabbergasted in the middle of this tragedy; wailing angrily. All the spices respond by exploding from their containers and coating the room in all tastes known to man. Bruce kneels to clean the mess and soon the whole room is aflame. Coughing and waving the smoke from his face he spies a gong in one corner of the room. This he strikes, and all his children enter. They douse the flames with extinguishers, clean the floor with brooms, and beat the refrigerator to submission with clubs. Their task done they kneel before their master, who has poured some coffee beans into a bowl and started eating them. His face betrays no weakness.

"Where is Alfred?"

One of them looks up.

"He's moved to a ranch down south. He's with a good family. In a better place now."

The frown on his face grows even sterner.

"What are you trying to say to me?"

The boy looks up once more.

"Alfred's dead, Bruce. He's dead."

There is a short silence, and the master's intense eyes bore into the floor.

"Well, at…at least you're back, Timothy."

The boy nods.

"We have brought you a new one."

In a tiny spot on Bruce's face there is not a frown but a hint of a smile. The rest is all frown. One of the children rises and opens the door. A pale man enters, clad in Alfred's old clothes. Green hair is slicked neatly down, ruby red lips have been glossed over with a less aggravating color. Bruce nods.

"His training begins now."

He stands. He throws himself to the floor. He rolls back and forth, groaning with utter despair.

"My parents are dead!"

The children look expectantly at the new butler. He smiles awkwardly and steps forward. He pats the master on the back.

"There, there."

Suddenly one of the children is on him, smacking him on the head with a rolled up newspaper. The master stands, the child retreats. A moment passes in tense silence. Then Bruce throws himself to the floor once more, beating his meaty fists into the floor.

"My parents are deeeaaaad!"

The children stare expectantly at the butler.

* * *

"Ms. Isley, I presume?"

It is a man in a suit who speaks.

"Yes?"

His face is a mask of practiced sorrow.

"It's the Riddler."

He takes off his official-looking hat.

"Ye-es?"

His official-looking eyes look into her eyes, which look back.

"He's dead."

They are silent a while.

"Why are you telling me?"

He pulls out a document, flashes it in her direction.

"Well, you are listed as his next of kin."

Her eyes widen.

"Oh. That's… incredibly sad."

He pokes his document with a finger.

"You are also his sole inheritor."

Harley pops out of nowhere, shooting off fireworks. The man uses the confusion of the resulting fire to scatter, in a literal sense. The suit falls empty to the floor as thousands of cockroaches with sunglasses pour out into the street. They nod at their contact across the street. All according to plan.

* * *

Down the dark hallways of Wayne Manor a head rolls. Long dead family members look down with disdain at its passing. A clown-butler chases wearily after it.

"I hate this job, I hate this job, I hate this job."

He swipes at the head with his broom, but it rolls out of the way. The clown carries on, cursing. The head rolls up a wall and disappears into a ventilation shaft that stands conveniently open. The butler stares after it, into the darkness.

"Ugh."

A bell breaks the quiet air of the mansion. The clown-butler groans and struts down the hall. The bell rings once more.

"Co-ming."

* * *

Five coffins burst open. Confused bodies rise. They groan, their awful noises promising revenge on whoever has brought them here.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," starts a mysterious voice in the dark. "You are no doubt wondering why I brought you here."

They stare around the room. The coffins are arrayed around a mighty oak table.

"Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth."

The butler nods at the others gathered.

"The Riddler."

He scratches his head.

"Aquaman."

The king inspects his coffin curiously.

"Cheetah."

The archaeologist looks rather displeased as she crawls out of her coffin.

"And Nicolas Cage."

A frvlszt snokhr fllt.

"And- who are you?"

An old man in a fancy white suit dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Me? I'm the owner of this here ranch."

The great armchair at the end of the table swivels around. There is a great white cat seated in it, with a mighty belly. Demurely it strokes the miniature, transparent Killer Moth that lies curled up on its stomach.

"I thought it was just a metaphor," says Moth.

The old man shakes his head.

"No, we're pretty real around here. Honest hands working the earth, mighty herds grazing peacefully, family values…"

"Yes, very well. Fine. Outstanding. You will no doubt serve me well."

The old man beams happily at the faith shown in him.

"Now! Gentlemen! And lady! I have assembled this crack team of operatives to save me from the dreary dimension I have trapped myself in. You are all individuals steeped in mystery, and its mystic power. I have no doubt you will do marvelously."

"Aga iastha metetehazdul."

Glornsvn friawuz frithjon.

"Jesus Christ, Mr. Cage," the fully materialized Killer Moth exclaims.

Thade surtectidon teceid. Tesb rocta.

"Uh. Where did he go?"

Aquaman wrinkles his nose at the powerful smell of sulphur.

"It is best not to ask," answers Alfred, ashen-faced.

"Just do us all a favor and never summon him again," mutters the Cheetah as she trudges out of the dark room.

* * *

AN: You can still request characters.


	14. Crystal Clear

The anchor stares beautifully into the camera.

"Good afternoon, everyone. For those of you just tuning in, it's time for the president's weekly declaration of war. We go now to the White House."

The president stands ceremonially before a little globe.

"It is uncertain whose skin we will melt off their bones next, but our specialists are leaning towards Nicaragua."

The globe spins and spins. The president takes a step forward, his dignified finger hovering in the air. Drums sound in the background. Then suddenly! He trips on one of his wings and goes tumbling to the floor. In an instant it is over, the president lying flat on his stately back. The finger is still raised. It points straight out the window, at the blazing sun outside. A moment passes tensely. The globe still spins peacefully. The camera goes back to the anchor, ashen-faced. The president stands. He does not lower his finger. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, a peaceful smile on his face. Spreading his arms he walks. There is not a sound to be heard, nothing but the slow, measured steps. He is like some wild, perfect god straight from the dreams of every true American.

The anchor still stares, speechless. The president steps out onto the White House lawn, looking up. A circle of secret service men forms around him, their heads bowed. From one of them he grabs a space helmet. The whole nation breathes tensely.

A bald eagle chirps. The flags fly proud on the White House grounds. The eyes of every child of this majestic and god-forsaken soil are on him. He bends his knees. And in one presidential leap, we have lift-off!

Long wings beat. The air is torn by the shriek of music, as if the very spirit of unhinged nationalism has manifested itself through the countless instruments that play. No, not a single kazoo, trumpet or bagpipe in the United States goes un-played. The president rises, and all the world can see. He is like some bright, shining star shooting through the clear blue sky.

On the shores of Crete stands an old man gazing skywards. The wind plays gently with his long, white locks. His lips struggle with a forlorn smile as his wrinkled eyes strain to see. His voice breaks as he laughs and sobs, remembering. As two rivers do his tears flow. The president rises.

A jet fighter soars by. The pilot screams into his radio.

"Maybe- Maybe we've killed enough, sir! Please! Don't- don't go."

The quick, disapproving glance says it all. The president rises.

"Tell my wife I love her very much."

A secret service man looks sadly at Sharon.

"She kno-o-ows!"

The president leaves the earth's atmosphere. Wings beat. Flesh sizzles.

"Ground control to Mr. Zsasz, your circuit's dead! There's something wrong!"

Burnt wings beat weakly.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Zsasz?"

Dull eyes blink slowly.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Zsasz? Can you hear me, Mr. Zsasz? Can you hea….?"

The president's lifeless husk drifts slowly toward the sun.

* * *

It is the Week of Wailing. The people of America rise as one and traverse the earth, demanding everything on earth, dead or living, cry for the fallen president so that he may return.

"I, the people, demand your tears."

Such were the words of the people. Agreeing that he had been the fairest of men, and a jolly good fellow to boot, the world weeps. All the nations and all the animals weep. The trees weep, and the skies and the mountains. The moss weeps, the stones weep, the sands weep. Even the water weeps.

But in one Bat-cave they have found a giantess. And she weeps not. Despite their pleas, their bribes and their threats, she will not shed a single tear. The people return crestfallen to their homes.

The funeral is attended by a countless number of mourners. The burning ship dispels every shadow from the cold night sky. A dwarf falls to his knees, bawling loudly. A burly man with fiery red hair takes out his frustration by punting him onto the flames.

* * *

Upon a midnight dreary, as he ponders, weak and weary, there comes a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door.

"Tis some visiter," mutters the Scarecrow as he crosses the floor.

It is Snoop Dogg, rapping at his chamber door.

"Only this and nothing more," continues the Scarecrow, shaken to the core.

For what is there to do, faced with this colossal artist of yore?

Why, hallucinate, of a girl named Becky. This and nothing more.

"Tell me," starts the Scarecrow, "will ever this woman leave me? Tell me truly, I implore!"

Quoth the Snoop "Nevermore."

"Shall my soul be lifted from this shadow?" He looks out where a bat-shaped shadow flits, out there on the shore.

Quoth the Snoop "Nevermore."

Hours pass, as does the haze. An empty room before his gaze. A heart still so wildly beating. Old memories and dreams, all fleeting.

The Scarecrow is left quite alone. He leans back in his chair, cold to the bone. His broken voice echoes, with a haunting tone.

"Oh, the shark has…"

* * *

"_Deus, merda, amor, homunculus_."

The sermon is interrupted as the door to the cathedral is kicked open. Before the bewildered eyes of the Swiss Guard an adventurous Australian sails through the air.

"Ooh, he's a big one!"

With a most unrespectable thump the pope is brought to the floor. The Australian and the holy man wrestle. The pope hat falls gently to the floor, completely forgotten in the chaos. Amid the respectable and sweaty maneuvers, a hand happens to fall on the pope's scalp.

"By God, mate! Your scalp's…luxurious. What product do y'use?"

The pope rests, his hands keeping his heavy torso off the floor.

"I use Drury'al," he says, throwing his head back. "Because I'm worth it."

One of the Swiss Guard coughs.

"Yarr!"

The pope is back on his feet, looking like a not-so lean, mean, killing machine. The Australian jumps to his feet, his cool hat falling gently to the floor, where it joins its forgotten, holy comrade. The pope and the Australian circle warily, neither taking their eyes off the other for a second. His holiness chants under his breath.

"Pretty teeth, dear…"

* * *

He lets himself in. There is noise coming from the kitchen. He stands in the doorway.

"Alfred."

Bruce stares at him without a hint of surprise or embarrassment.

"Master Bruce."

He raises an eyebrow at the man buttering the master's toast.

"Alfred, I'd like you to meet Replacefred."

The clown-butler curtsies.

"42 years, Master Bruce."

Bruce shrugs.

"And then you died. There was a coffin and everything." His face turns stone cold. "And the falling pearls…"

The clown-butler starts bowing wildly.

"I assure you I am quite alive." He throws a glance at the silly bowing of the clown-butler. "Oh, for heaven's sake!"

Alfred pulls a pistol and shoots him. Bruce turns the pages of his newspaper, munching on his toast.

"Well? Are you going to clean that up or what?"

The butler happily sets to work. The clown-butler groans. Alfred smiles at him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

He pulls out a straw and pokes it into the clown's open gut. He gives a sharp suck, and the bullet is out.

"Now, as your senior, I will also act as your superior."

He sows the clown up nimbly.

"A super-butler to your sub-butler, if you will."

The clown rises, wheezing. He raises his eyes and groans. Bruce has finished his toast and started eating the plate. Through his bleeding lips he croons.

"And he keeps them…"

* * *

Down there, at the bottom of the world, a heart beats in the darkness. Across this warm and claustrophobic space echoes the song.

"In his face…"

The darkness is dispelled by gleaming steel, scarred flesh and eyes like bottomless pools. The president's dagger sinks deep, reaching straight for our hearts. We're dead, kids.

* * *

AN: Drury'al is what made Drury Walker so stinking rich. Everyone knows this.


	15. Underworld Undulations

And on the seventh day there came a disturbance in the broadcast. The president's empty chair was empty no more. There appeared a dog on the soft yet manly sitting utility. A masked dog.

"We interrupt this silent broadcast with breaking news. It seems a trespasser has taken a seat in the president's chair."

The camera moves to the anchor-man, who stares wide-eyed at his screen.

"Woah. It's Batman."

The camera returns to the dog, along with some elevator music and the words 'technical difficulties' on the bottom of the screen. A minute later the camera is back in the newsroom, where a new anchor has taken over. It is the circle of life.

"A dog has interrupted the tragic ceremony. I am told I have direct contact. Dog! What are your demands?"

"Woof!"

The beast's tongue hangs out happily.

"Who are you?"

"Woo-Ace-oof!"

The anchor swallows, wipes the sweat from his brow.

"Why are you here?"

The dog looks around confusedly, then rests his head on the president's desk, hiding its face with its paws as it wracks its brain.

"Woof," he says sadly. "Woofxistential, woof, crisis."

Back to the anchor.

"Breaking news! We now go straight to the senate!"

There is a man behind a podium. He looks sternly out at his crowd.

"I am a scientist. I believe the president is in an underworld of some sort, and that he can be saved from this place by military intervention."

An old rooster leans forward, crinkling his suit.

"Are you saying the president is in hell?"

All the old dogs bark a bit, then simmer down. The scientist shakes his head gravely.

"No. Now, he isn't in heaven, but he sure as heck ain't in hell. It's some sort of…something."

A person bawls loudly somewhere in the audience. Their tearful voice resounds through the room.

"But why wouldn't the president go to heaven?"

The scientist takes off his glasses and looks sincerely out at the crowd.

"It is my belief…that the president…was simply too good... to go to heaven."

There can be no quarreling after such a statement. Clap, clap go the hands. No-one knows how the tears go, but go they do.

"It is my belief…that this is the Lord's work. That he has put our president in a place where we can retrieve him. So that he may work further good on this here earth."

Hallelujahs and kumbayas resound, ka-ching say the cash machines. All the little old men wag their old little bottoms.

"All in favor?"

"Aye," is the shouted answer of the homogenous multitude.

"Let's go tear not-hell a new asshole!"

"Yarr!"

Out in the cities parents joyfully heft their young aloft, throwing them outside to the hungry jaws of Uncle.

* * *

"No!"

Nora Fries is having a bad day.

"No, no, no!"

Her face contorts at every new horror.

"God, give me strength!"

Finally she cracks, the vein in her forehead seconds away from popping.

"Christ, people! It's like you've never had sex with a huge robotic suit before!"

She kicks and misses the retreating Penguin, who covers himself with a blanket. He cleans his monocle.

"I do not understand why I am doing this," he starts, "or why you would want me to."

Nora's scowling face straight up attacks him, the monocle cracking under her withering gaze.

"You're here for the name recognition. Now keep quiet."

Magpie bites her lip.

"So why am I here?"

"Because you're cool, dammit!"

The villainess scratches her magnificent hair as she looks down at the whip in her hand.

"But what's even the point of whipping someone who can't feel it?"

"It isn't real! None of it is! It's. Wish. Fulfillment. A fantasy!"

Magpie raises her hands in surrender. Another voice starts.

"But I'm…I'm the pope."

Nora's eyes move over to the scaled giant wringing the pope hat in his hands. She smiles wildly.

"Yes! And?"

He swallows.

"Shouldn't I maybe…not be doing this?"

He recoils as she walks stiffly over to him, unceasing violence no doubt playing behind her closed eyes as she nears.

"Forget about god for a second, Waylon. Right now I am the only person or being you listen to. I am your higher power! Now put the damn hat back on!"

The giant seems to shrink before her, which makes him look only about eight times her size.

"Yes, ma'am," he squeaks.

She claps her hands, returning to her chair.

"Alright, places everyone! Melt My Icy Pants, take three!"

* * *

A once proud man trudges down the yellow brick road, his shoulders hunched and his eyebrows casting deep shadows over his face. Gone are his majestic wings and his sweet platypus tail, lost are the countless scars they wore. He looks wistfully down at the knife in his hand as a mangy-looking lion appears down the road. Walk, stab, walk. The thrill is gone.

There is a hat on the side of the road. He steps into it and pops out on the other side. It's a house, and in it there is a big and ridiculous cat. The knife seeks out its heart. Some flying monkeys follow him through the hat. He massacres them lazily, returns through the hat. The deep blue sea above is vast and filled with dead life. It makes him wonder. Who is Zsasz?

Back on the yellow brick road. A girl in a red hood and a hungry wolf run through the glistening, whistling woods. Walk, stab, walk. The thrill is gone. He stares at the faces growing in the grass, tries to decipher their incessant giggling.

He jumps down a well; gazes steadily into the deep dark as he soars down. All the little critters run when he lands, none of them escape. Before he knows it he stands in a ruined court stained red. His eyes roam over the stupid cave-wall paintings of many-toed kings of a long gone time. What is it all about?

Back on the yellow brick road. A naked man covered in scars and with eyes like tiny pools of darkness walks towards him.

Walk, stab, walk.

The thrill is gone.

* * *

Becky Albright rings the doorbell. A jubilant Scarecrow answers the door. She averts her eyes.

"Holy cow, Dr. Crane!"

He looks surprised. His straw bikini leaves little to the imagination.

"Is something wrong, Rebecca?"

She covers her face with her hands, occasionally peeping through her fingers.

"Um, yeah, you seem to be, uh, wearing that thing I sent you?"

He looks down at himself, then back at her.

"Yes! I decided to accept your offer of partnership."

She scratches furiously at the back of her neck.

"No, it was, ah, it was a joke? Sort of like… giving you something as ridiculous as the thing you tried to give me. You know?"

He looks down at himself again, this time with dejection in his eyes.

"Oh. No, I…I knew that. I merely wished to…startle and unnerve you."

Becky laughs awkwardly.

"Mission accomplished!"

He turns away, trots slowly back into the darkness of his apartment. She clears her throat.

"So, uh, not coming to the movies?"

"No, I don't feel like it," he offers over his shoulder. His non-existent butt grows distant.

"It looks nice, though! It really…does."

There is no answer. The door swings shut of its own accord. Becky bangs her head softly on it, taking the rose out of her coat and throwing it on the pavement. Lord above, why does she always mess it up with the doodz?

* * *

The sound of gunfire tears through the air. A sparkling fairy tumbles from the ground, a royal frog is splattered all over the pond. Brave soldiers flock on the scene.

"Area secured!"

They continue into the woods, mowing down a bear reaching for honey and a puppet with an obscene nose.

"Hostiles pacified!"

A glimpse of red shoes in the woods.

"Charlie in the tree-line!"

The planes soar overhead and the napalm spreads over the forest like a warm blanket. The brave soldiers run along, down, down, down the yellow brick road.

Suddenly the group is ambushed. A scarred man with a peaceful face and vengeful eyebrows appears out of nowhere on the yellow bricks. The knife moves quick.

"Mr. President! We are not hostiles!"

Another scarred man appears, cutting open the speaker's neck.

"What the hell?"

A third scarred man appears, piercing a soldier's kidney before stopping beside the two who came before.

"I am more than just myself," says the president as the trio merges into one. "Time is not long," he explains as he moves in no time at all, his after-image blurring and then staying there. The real thing, if there is such a thing, cuts a swathe through the remaining soldiers. "Every space is of my body," he breathes. A knife stabs out of a soldier's collar bone, cuts downward as if through butter. The president leans out of the gaping torso even as he stands in a dozen different locations, cutting up a dozen different men. He nods calmly, his eyes locked on everyone. "Deus vult," he murmurs sweetly.

All the soldiers are slaughtered but one. This special snowflake manages to calm him down with a card trick. They sit facing each other, breath coming heavy. The soldier tears his uniform, showing his bare chest.

"You don't have to be afraid, Mr. President! See? I'm just a man. Like you. I'm your friend."

He is met by the wild glare of the president's eyebrows.

"Friend."

The soldier pats his heart.

"Friend."

The president furrows his brows. His lips move, trying to communicate.

"Fr-"

The soldier nods, his eyes blurring.

"Fre…Frie-"

The president lays his hand on the soldier's heart.

"Friend."

The soldier's tears fall freely, and he feels a stirring in his breast that he cannot account for.

* * *

Stephanie stares in horror.

"Excuse me, clown butler? There's a head in my soup."

The Joker blinks at it twice before shrugging and moving on to better things. The head smiles. Stephanie gets to her feet.

"You know what? I've had enough! It's time to end this!"

She assumes the fighting position, bobbing up and down. The head attempts the same.

"Hnnrlg," it offers as a rejoinder.

Stephanie vs. Dead Head! FIGHT!

Stephanie delivers a vicious roundhouse kick to the face!

"Ung," drools the dead head as it rolls away.

The dead head stares dully!

"Haaaaate," mutters its opponent.

Stephanie picks the head up and slaps it repeatedly!

"Fnrg," mutters the head.

The dead head blinks stupidly!

"Haaaaaate!"

Stephanie throws the head into the ground!

"Abluh?" The head rolls helplessly, its tongue dangling. Its health bar is all the way down.

FINISH HIM!

"But it's already dead. How can I possibly…?"

Stephanie stomps experimentally on the head. It has little effect.

"See? It just doesn't…"

FINISH HIM!

"Are you even listening?"

FINI-

"OKAY, OKAY!"

She stomps with renewed fervor. There is some damage but, like the hard and unforgiving coconut, this thing is hard to crack. Stomp, stomp, stomp; all in vain.

FINISH HIM!

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

She fetches the scissors, stabs them through the thing's cheek. Probably painful, if it's even capable of feeling pain, but the thing has not re-died yet.

FINISH HIM!

"ALRIGHT, THAT'S IT!"

Stephanie leaps at the disembodied and frankly infuriating voice and slams it into the wall. They stare each other down and assume the fighting position, bobbing up and down and becoming slightly pixelated. The dead head fills in for the voice.

"Fghhhht!"

* * *

Mr. Zsasz drifts lazily on his back down a river of blood, sighing with contentment. Absentmindedly he croons.

"Old man river."

He smiles sleepily, a row of sharp teeth gleaming.

"He just keeps rolling."

He does the backstroke, thick red splishing and splashing onto his happy body.

"He keeps on rolling along."

He floats toward the riverbank, hefts himself out of the river. The blood drips off his muscular body and the rulers of the various underworlds fan themselves. Mictlantecuhtli, Hel and Yama give each other approving looks before giving the president the thumbs up. Mr. Zsasz smiles.

Back on the yellow brick road. Thousands of footsteps echo behind the scarred man walking slowly onward. His tiny, black eyes look out into the world full of hope.

"I am the lord of death, and I will walk the earth."


	16. Jaws and Jamming

AT STATELY WAYNE MANOR, BRUCE WAYNE, THE CIVILIAN IDENTITY OF THE MYSTERIOUS BATMAN, AWAKENS.

"Holy exposition, Batman! Bane is bringing you breakfast to bed!"

It is true. Bane is bringing him breakfast. He deposits the tray forcefully atop the not-currently-caped crusader's lap. He shakes his fist at the lord of the manor.

"I will break your fast, Batman!"

Then he leaves. The Bruce looks over at his young ward with much confusion.

"Why are you in my bed, Robin?"

Robin stares vacantly at the wall. His voice sounds far away.

"I come here every night, while you sleep."

The Bruce rubs his eyes.

"God, I feel like I've been asleep for ages."

God's irritated face appears on the wall. He says nothing, for he is dead by the hand of a zombie. But still, he's there, and that's gotta count for something. The Bruce ignores this heavenly visit to save his questionable sanity further damage.

"Which Robin are you, anyway? You sound like Dick, but he moved out a long time ago."

Robin has finished all the food from the tray. He wipes his mouth and coughs.

"My therapist told me this might help."

A SHORT AND AWKWARD WHILE LATER, THE BRUCE WAYNE AND HIS NOT-SO-YOUNG-ANYMORE WARD ENTER THE MAIN HALL. BUT WHAT IS THIS? THE MAIN HALL IS FULL OF VILLAINS!

"My god, Robin. What are they all doing here? How could they know?"

His eyes glaze over and he staggers forward.

"How could they know?"

Robin follows him with a worried look. He narrows his eyes at the evil assembly.

"What are you guys doing?" He demands of them, forcefully.

"How could they know?" Offers his mumbling mentor.

The villains shrug, and speak, one at a time.

"We're making pudding." "Yeah, we're making pudding." "We're making pudding." And so on.

"How could they know?"

Robin takes a step forward, but is hindered from further interrogation as The Bruce falls dramatically to his knees, shaking his fists toward the sky with a pleasant smile on his face.

"HOW COULD THEY KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE PUDDING?"

HOW INDEED.

* * *

"Welcome, viewers, to the White House. We are here to speak with the newly resurrected president. He returned just yesterday. And hell followed with him. The procession proceeded peacefully to the White House, but we are as of yet unsure just what is going on. Mr. President? Care to shed a light on this for us?"

The camera pans to the president, who stands by his desk smiling sweetly.

"Look. Death drops from my fingertips."

Indeed it does. As the murky drop hits the desk the wood rots and crumbles.

"Uh. Fascinating."

The president smiles, clenched teeth gleaming.

"So, uh, tell us Mr. President, does your new title as Lord of Death have any repercussions for your role as the leader of the free world?"

"Not really, no."

"Alright. Now it says here in yesterday's announcement that you have also become the duke of Schleswig-Holstein. Any idea how that happened?"

The president shrugs. Eerie music reverberates in the room. A jaunty voice seems to come from far away.

_Und der Haifisch…_

"Um. Where is that music coming from?"

The president draws a dagger from his smile. The reporter looks unnerved.

"Uh, we seem to have lost all connection to the outside world, Mr. President."

"Oh, really?"

The news crew shares a terrified look.

_Er hat z__ä__hne…_

The president rings a bell. In comes a kindly middle-aged woman with a cart full of dentist tools in tow. She steps gingerly over the stained spots on the floor that the news crew is just now noticing with wide eyes.

"Oh, Mr. President, but this is most unusual."

_Und die tr__ä__gt er…_

The president nods smiling, hisses through clenched teeth.

"But I cannot open my mouth, Pandora. You must open it for me. Everything depends on it."

"Well, alright."

_In gesicht._

The president's mouth comes open. And all hell breaks loose. Again. The president speaks clearly, even though his gaping mouth no longer seems fit for speaking.

"Don't be afraid. Nothing is forever and all things must pass."

They back away as the president takes a step towards them. Rows of teeth swirl out of his maw, never-ending circles swinging deadly in the air.

"And all things and all things and all things and all things," chants the lord.

The news crew steps back, shaking with emotion.

"Oh, good god, those eyebrows."

They really are quite nice.

"I can't say no to this man!"

They all throw themselves willingly upon the chewing knives. What remains seeps through the floor, down onto the wheels of the economy, ensuring they run smoothly. The president sighs happily as his rotating saws swing.

"It's not always going to be this great. All things must pass away."

* * *

The camera zooms in on his confident eyes. The Hatter seems to be taking his pudding-induced blood-loss rather well.

"Oh, yes, my love life is considerable. Observe."

Tetch rings the little bell.

"Nurse! Woo me."

The nurse nods her head.

"Okay. I'm not very good at this, though."

He smiles.

"I have no doubt you will give it your best."

She smiles back.

"Okay, here goes. Ahem. Get out of that bed, you sorry sack of shit."

The Hatter's lip quivers.

"W-what?"

The nurse adjusts her hat smugly.

"It's easier to woo people with no self-esteem. And you have got to be the most pathetic man I've seen in a long time."

The Hatter looks hurt into his trembling pudding.

"Oh."

The nurse lights up a cigarette.

"So, anyway, I probably won't have much to do tomorrow night. How would you like to go to the movies with me? If I don't find anything better to do, that is."

The Hatter rubs his brow.

"Um. Yes. Okay?"

She blows the smoke in his face.

"Great. Pick you up at eight. Maybe."

She strolls whistling away. The camera zooms in on the Hatter's devastated face.

"Do you think that went well?"

The Hatter looks up at the camera, blinking back tears.

"I would like to be alone now, please."

The camera draws back slowly, dramatically. The Hatter lies back down, exhausted.

* * *

"Introducing! Professor Strange and the Monster Men!"

The professor's afro is something to behold.

"This was the scene at Gotham Square this evening, as rock and roll formally ended as a musical genre after this landmark performance. As we speak, musicians all over the world are going home. The general consensus seems to be that losing the genre was worth witnessing its irrefutable peak."

A group of teenagers modeled after their idol, with neck-beards and no hair, flash peace signs at the camera. The reporter scares them off with her blunderbuss.

"In other news, parents are afraid of their children's violent tendencies. Tune in after these messages to hear a selection of talking heads blame something inane. Don't go anywhere! Because I will find you."

Vicki Vale smiles happily at the camera, as the imbecile boxes back home presumably go to advertisements. The reporter brushes back her hair ash she smiles e ash, eyes not her own and en e ash, ruin!

* * *

AN: Yep. Request some characters now.


	17. Revelation

"Never turn your back, Bruce."

Ra's al Ghul thrusts his sword through his pupil. The Batman falls heavy to his knees, blood filling his mouth.

"I'm- sorry, senpai. I should have listened."

He falls to the floor, blood pooling stylistically.

"Damn straight," comes a last rejoinder from the shadows.

Dick enters the room, holding a stack of books. His eyes go wide. His arms go limp. Time moves slow. The books tumble to the floor, in the darkness. His legs move.

"Bruce!"

He kneels by his fallen mentor. The Batman takes the offered hand, shakily gets to his feet.

"I'm fine, Robin. Just a scratch."

They walk away together, the ward leading his guardian in the darkness. There is a light at the…end of the room?

"Let us wander with purpose inside."

The next room is drenched in shadow, filled with dead trees. In the middle stands the greatest, and strung up from its highest branch the Scarecrow waits rotting. Its broken neck twists to face the two squarely, dead eyes casting shade upon them.

"Hail, men. Suffer."

Cold fingers shift and torn clothes shimmer; the bony death stumbles slowly down the great tree with spindly legs and hollow chest ringing. It draws calmly towards two men who join hands, raises one thin arm to cut the air.

"Truth is nothing, lies are less. Warm bodies running through cold winter do as they please. All is meaningless, wisdom knows emptiness."

It places a bony finger to their foreheads. The Scarecrow shambles back to its tree. Both heroes fall to the floor as their life fades, spasming limbs doing one last mad dance on the grey marble. For even hale men suffer.

"Let's go, Robin."

The two men walk through the next door.

"We are not alone."

The hall is filled with dead and dying, every step across the bleeding masses begs the question from suffering lips: Why?

"The question has been asked and the mystery posed, it is hardly a riddle but the answer must be given. Why?"

A pallid man in the room, pristine suit looking pointless. The floor around him is uneven and blocky, black and white, sprawled with illegible letters. The two heroes journey up towards him. The Batman bows, smiling upwards.

"No reason."

The smart man grins back, answers along with the younger of the duo.

"Exactly."

A spear thrusts from the floor and through the Batman's back, hefting him aloft. Through gritted teeth his words and liquids spill at the younger.

"Become me, Dick! Become me!"

The son nods and with lidded eyes steps beneath the spear and opens his mouth.

"Come."

They walk. Turning the key loosens the entrance. They exit and enter.

"Getting lost is tempting."

The Batman nods. The room is full of circles drawn on the floors and walls. A clown sits inside one. He has tears in his eyes, his mascara has run.

"All these damn circles. They keep coming back."

The Batman and his protégé tip-toe across, blushing with the shame of children. But there is a symbol at the end.

"Let us pass."

The room is great and the tree greater. Its leaves are vibrant and healthy. There are people hanging hidden in the branches. The Batman leads his ward closer. Reaching up he plucks an apple from the crotch of a man hanging from the great tree. He smiles.

"Eat, my son."

Dick accepts the apple with a funny look.

"Why and how did that happen?"

Batman raises a gently teasing yet stern eyebrow.

"Loose lips, Robin."

Dick takes a bite, shrugging.

"I'm not telling anyone anything, I'm asking. But just forget it."

The Batman leads him to a large window overlooking the manor grounds, where light and dark play upon the earth, day and night meeting in the middle. He throws his hand out.

"Some day all this will be yours."

Dick's wide eyes gaze stoically over the land under the dim sun.

"What about Tim? And all the other kids?"

The Batman scowls.

"Tim will get my book collection."

Dick nods.

"Good." He sighs. "Good."


	18. Excitement

Move past the shining towers of downtown and the resplendent marble of the city's old quarter, and you find yourself in the Narrows; a place devoid entirely of such things as hope and compassion. This is where cut-throats and leg-breakers ply their trade, amid various other low-lives. Coming to this harsh place after dark is either a sign of idiotic bravery or plain idiocy. Let us walk these streets.

"Cut-throats and leg-breakers sure, but you're forgetting the worst of the bunch."

Over yonder, on the rain-slicked corner there is…a man with a pipe, sitting atop a barrel.

"A man with a pipe? I'm more than that and you know it."

The man is costumed. It is a silly costume.

"Is not. Get back to the low-lives. Then introduce me. You could start with 'Speak of the devil' or something like that. Yeah, that'd make me look good."

Yes. This is where various scumbags ply their trade, from murderers to pickpockets and, heaven help us, fortune tellers. But these are merely the obvious dangers. Besides them there are-

"I am Killer Moth! Fear me!"

No. This is simply too embarrassing. Forget about the low-lives and their tragic stories. Let's just get out of here.

* * *

MEANWHILE, AT STATELY WAYNE MANOR

Paintings of arrogant people long dead stare down the empty corridors. The marble shines and every piece of furniture is more extravagant and impressive than the last. But the house seems empty. The grand halls echo with the sound of absolutely nothing. Seriously, where the hell is everyone?

"Ah, nothing like sitting down and smoking some good old pipe tobacco."

Hell no.

"Puff, puff. This is the life."

A familiar figure lies in the king-size bed in the master suite. Someone will surely kill him for this intrusion.

"I am Killer Moth and I can lie down wherever I please."

* * *

MEANWHILE, AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS

Smoke curls lazily upward in the darkness. This is the office of police commissioner James Gordon. His back is turned to us as he peers out at the city he loves, but the familiar greying hair peeks over the back of the chair. Three months ago he promised his wife and daughter he would give up smoking. He has kept this promise up till now. But it seems this harried lifestyle has proven too much for the harried agent of justice. Indeed, this has been an exceptionally difficult month. The crime rate rises steadily, despite the best efforts of the city's guardians. The atmosphere is dramatic, moody and meaningful.

"Life is good."

What?

"Life is fantastic."

The commissioner's job is not an easy one. The danger of a mental breakdown is always present. Has the stress finally gotten to this man, after years of dutiful service? Wait! Slowly the chair turns! The commissioner's face emerges from the darkness and it's…Killer Moth with a grey wig. Still he smokes that damned pipe.

"Alright, now say something about how dangerous and evil I am. Maybe wonder a bit about what I've done with the commissioner?"

Leave me alone.

* * *

MEANWHILE, AT THE FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE

The empty halls of the mysterious vault of the man known as Superman echo with the unmistakable sounds of a heated game of ping-pong. What amazing adventure will this lead to for the man of steel? Let us step closer, so that we may spy upon these proceedings.

"Yes! Take that, Superman!"

Impossible.

"Killer Moth does a wild jig of victory! Say it."

Superman has been deceived by this…this villain. He is acting all chummy with the fellow.

"Yes. I am a villain. A terrible one! Moth! Moth! Moth! Come on, Superman, chant with me."

"Moth! Moth! Moth!"

Their voices ring out in unison, echoing through the crystal edifice. It is clear something must be done about this dangerous deviant, lest the story lose all coherence.

* * *

MEANWHILE, AT THE LAIR OF THE MIGHTY KILLER MOTH!

What have you done, you fiend? Show yourself!

But the place is empty. There does not seem to be a doofus present.

"Oh, yes there is. Wait, no, I didn't expect that last bit. I take it back."

There is no taking back. This is an adult story, with irrefutable consequences. Now where are you?

"I'm right behind you."

Cocoon! Cocoon!

"Aha! Tangled in the Moth's web!"

Despicable.

* * *

MEANWHILE, IN A CELLAR SOMEWHERE DOWNTOWN

Furious fists pound against heavy metal, to no avail.

"Holy trinity! My fists are useless against it!"

Robin shakes his head at their predicament.

"My futility belt isn't any help either!"

The Batman tries every useless measure he can think of. But alas! Behind the dynamic duo all manner of villain and supporting characters watch hopelessly.

"Justice!"

The Batman beats petulantly on the door, before sliding to the floor with a wail.

"I have to get back. This is my story."

From the darkness a cold voice sounds.

"No, Batman. This story belongs to everyone. We are all equal here."

From the shadows steps…

"KGBeast!"

"Yes, it is…I mean: Da, it is I."

There is some manly posturing. A battle seems inevitable.

"Give it up, Beast. You know you are no match for me."

"That was then, my worthy adversary. Now you face a much more devious foe. For you see, I have learned the art of Soviet Seduction."

He strikes an earth-shattering pose, pointy chin jutting out magnificently. Behind him a red glow arises. A strange atmosphere fills the room.

"Holy hotpants, Batman!"

But the Batman cannot answer, for he is too overcome by the beast's next trick: He moves toward them leisurely, his voluptuous hips swaying mightily with the power of the people.

"Holy unclean thoughts!"

His warm eyes twinkle with devious intent, his whole countenance an unholy union of angel and demon.

"That is too flipping hot, Batman!"

But the Batman cannot answer. His knees tremble. His teeth bite into his lip as the sweat pours off him. KGBeast does not ease up his relentless seducing. Catwoman takes notes on the sideline. The situation is looking grim. Can our heroes overcome this hurdle? Is there any hope?

"Hey, hey, hey!"

Up in the rafters! Uncle Sam hanging by one arm, hooting and hollering. Between the rafters he swings, like a monkey gone mad. His beautiful bloodshot eyes shoot this way and that. Through a frothing mouth he spews forth advice, seemingly aimed at the Batman.

"You have lost your way! Let the two fundamental ideas of this great country guide you, son!"

The Batman's ears twitch quizzically.

"Freedom and…justice?"

Uncle wags a mighty finger.

"No, violence and entertainment. Put the two together and you get…"

"The Joker!"

Uncle blinks ponderously.

"Well, sure, I guess. But you also can use this power. Let it fuel you! Fight!"

Everyone gathered smiles sweetly, knowingly. Uncle knows what's best. Uncle knows. The Batman looks raring to go; he screams at the ceiling as he flexes his mighty muscles!

"Raaaaah!"

Look at him go! He barrels forward, roaring all the way! And then- Bam! Straight into the metal door! Plop! Straight onto the floor!

"Urgh."

The Batman twitches on the ground. The door slowly opens. Robin kneels over the fallen hero.

"Batman, are you…?"

A mighty fist swats at the young man's worried face.

"I'm fine, Robin."

The Batman's face is grim as he stares at the wall.

"I'm used to the pain."

An awkward moment passes. Then slowly the assembled crowd starts slowly leaving through the now-open door. Robin watches his mentor with a worried look. The Batman rolls over so that no-one can see his face. He groans sadly.

"I wanna go home, Robin. Carry me."

The young hero nods grimly. Just another day in the life.


	19. Second Selves

Bruce looks up, hurt in his eyes.

"Selina? Are those…dogs?"

"Bruce! Yes, I…it turns out I'm allergic to cats."

"But you've been…doing the cat thing for years now."

She bites her lip.

"It all happened so suddenly. The pain was immense. I had to see a doctor and undergo severe treatment."

"So that's where you've been."

He smiles with satisfaction at another mystery solved.

"Well, no, I did some crime-fighting in Milan to pass the time."

That smile is wiped right off.

"What?"

"I said I did some crime-fighting-"

"No, no, I heard you. Wow. So…are you the Dogwoman now?"

"Hell no."

She drops the leash suddenly and the dogs scamper.

"I don't know why I was lugging those things around. I hate dogs. I just…really, really miss my cats."

"So what are you going to do now?"

She sighs wistfully and gazes at the stars.

"Move on to some other animal, I guess. It saddens me that my mantle won't be passed on, though. If only there were someone…someone kind and thoughtful and pure of heart and…no. It's just an empty dream."

"I could do it!"

"Oh, you would?"

"I'd love to! Catman: Gotham's Guardian Angel!" He strokes his chin, deep in thought. "Of course, I'd have to get rid of that schmuck."

"But no, no, it would have to be Catwoman."

"Oh. I am a man of many talents, but…"

"But?"

"And I don't know, I mean…who would be Batman? Robin? Ridiculous."

"I could be Batman!"

"Oh, you would? But wait! Wait, I'm having second thoughts."

Batman squeals in delight, her arms snaking around the Catwoman's back.

"Oh, you're the best!"

He blushes beautifully.

"Aw, shucks. It's what any hero would do."

She purses her eyes.

"Hmmm…"

"On second thought, no. They absolutely wouldn't."

"I see."

"So…you free tonight?"

Once more she looks to the stars thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid... justice is the only thing I have time for."

"Oh."

"I'm afraid I can't love you as you are. Our lives are too different."

"They are?"

"Listen, I… I want you to make your escape. I won't arrest you this time. You're…too beautiful for that."

"Oh, no! I better run!"

He disappears into the night.

"Yes. Perhaps fate will bring us together once more…some starry night…sucker."

* * *

Her trained eye sizes up the beauty inside the glass case.

"Watch and learn, kiddo. I mean Robin."

He eyes the diamond with confusion.

"Is this really okay, Batman?"

"Absolutely."

"Great!"

Suddenly a man in a split suit shows up. His face is hidden behind a mask.

"Batman!"

"Oh, hey, Harvey."

"You look different."

"So do you."

The man in the split suit shrugs.

"I decided the twos had gone too far. So I went with a bit of a mystery theme."

"Oh. So what should I call you?"

There is a glint of danger in his eyes.

"Call me…What's-His-Face."

"Will do, Harv."

* * *

"What the hell are you guys doing?"

The Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter look up at Harley Quinn with curious looks.

"We're…snuggling," explains the Hatter calmly.

"We're snuggle-buddies, you see," adds the Scarecrow.

"You people sicken me," she answers.

"Don't be such a gloomy puss."

"Shut up, Crane. I am in no mood for your bouncy personality today."

The Hatter looks astonished.

"Why not?"

She kicks him square in the face before calmly continuing.

"Because Pudding's busy working at the manor, and he doesn't get any vacation until the end of the month. And now Selina is Batman. She could be wooing him as we speak."

Scarecrow and the Hatter throw calm looks all over the place.

* * *

SMACK!

The Joker keeps walking, his butlery countenance holding firm despite his stinging buttocks. He ignores his boss' melancholy declaration of "Hurr, hurr." He likewise ignores the fact that his boss is obviously not the real Batman. She can't possibly be a worse employer in any case.

The door closes behind him and collapses against it, letting out a deep breath. All the anxiety flows from his body and the day's little tortures are all washed away. Then he opens his eyes and feels his heart stop for an agonizing moment. Alfred is standing atop a ladder outside the window, watching.

The scalding water of the shower absolves his worries. He croons a sad little ditty ("Swing low, sweet tha-a-ang") as he watches the water run down his pale legs and swirl around the drain. He is a man in a shower, all by himself and there is nothing to worry him, no duty to fulfill, no superior to impress. He sighs blissfully. Opening his eyes he sucks it right back in. Alfred has poked his head through the curtain. He seems unperturbed by the growing wetness of his face; his lips move.

"I'm watching you," he whispers.

The soft mattress and softer linen cover lull him to sleep. As his mind leaves the world he can feel all the terror seep from his bones. His thoughts feel pure once more, his life is his own. But his sleep slowly grows uneasy. He dreams that Alfred is lying right beside him, staring intently and judging him as he sleeps. So the whole night passes. The Joker opens his eyes to the bright sunlight. And finds that he has not been dreaming. A sad groan grows at the back of his throat.

* * *

At the scene of a murder, Catwoman is inspecting some stuff. Suddenly, from the shadows, comes a young man. He reacts before the young man can say a thing.

"Please, call me Catwoman."

The young man falls to his knees, shaking his head.

"Bruce, I…I can't take this much longer."

"Whatever do you mean, Robin?"

"I mean this is nuts. All of it. And all of you."

"What a thing to say! What if someone heard you and was hurt by your words?"

"Zsasz is president? Croc is pope? The former went to hell and back for no apparent reason? You're Catwoman? I've de-aged and become Robin again? It's ridiculous!" His bewildered eyes fall on the ground. "It's ridiculous and I feel like I'm the only one left with any sense. Please tell me you see something wrong with all this."

"Yes, I…I've been thinking about it and…"

The boy looks up at him, hopeful.

"Yes?"

"I think… I can see clearly now."

"Oh, thank God. I've been so scared, Bruce."

The Catwoman spreads his arms and twirls around, raising his voice in joyous song.

"I can see clearly now the rain has gone!"

Robin looks up from the floor with terror in his eyes.

"I can see all the obstacles in my way!"

Robin pushes his head into the floor, covering his ears as he mutters and sobs.

"No, no, no, please god no, no, no."

The Catwoman carries on with his song. The young man keeps crying, begging the lord for help. On the face of the moon a familiar, divine figure can be seen, shrugging, as if to say: "Sorry man, I got offed way back in chapter 12."


	20. Wanton Waiting

"I'm here, Jim."

The commissioner swivels around in his chair.

"I'm glad you're here, Batm-"

He falls silent. His guest gazes intently at him.

"It's Catwoman now."

The commissioner leans his elbows on his desk, eyes focusing on a spot of spilled coffee.

"I am not going to ask."

The Catwoman crosses his arms on his chest.

"I'm upholding the legacy, now that the original has retired."

The commissioner takes a hesitant breath, one hand gesturing uncertainly.

"But maybe you could make some…adjustments to the costume?"

The Catwoman shakes his head, adamant.

"No."

Silence.

"I see."

With lightning speed the commissioner draws his gun and shoots the Catwoman in the gut. He lies on the floor, blood seeping through his fingers, and looks up in anguish.

"Jim…why?"

The commissioner lays down his weapon and stands up.

"It does beg the question, doesn't it? Why would James Gordon, your old friend, shoot you? The answer is simple. It is not he who stands before you! For you see, I am really-"

He grabs the flesh of his neck and yanks it up in a peeling motion. Nothing happens. No mask comes off. The commissioner looks puzzled; he tries again. But it is to no avail. Try as he might, he cannot reveal any other face than that of police commissioner James Gordon. He coughs awkwardly, loosens his collar.

"I'm sorry, Ba…Catwoman. I don't know what came over me. I felt certain I was someone else."

The Catwoman nods faintly.

"It's alright."

The commissioner kneels over his bleeding form.

"Oh, this isn't good. Maybe I can just…suck out the poison?"

He lowers puckered lips toward the wound. Catwoman shakes his head.

"No, Jim, you shot me."

The commissioner's skilled lips spit out the bullet. The Catwoman looks on, bewildered. The commissioner smiles.

"Now all I have to do is apply some of my wound-staunching saliva."

The Catwoman shivers from blood-loss as he does so.

"What about my internal organs?"

The commissioner points to the floor. They're all there, present and accounted for.

"Already sucked them out."

The Catwoman's eyes widen.

"Oh. Thank you."

The commissioner pats his shoulder.

"Don't be glum. Now your anatomy is comically correct."

"Wow, you're right, I can strike all sorts of bizarre poses."

The commissioner looks away.

"Please refrain from such activities in my presence."

The Catwoman does so sooner or later. The commissioner nods, pleased.

"You must be wondering why I called you here."

"No, I just dropped in because I felt like it."

"I wanted to ask you to join my group of secret operatives: Gordon's Angels."

"Sounds good. Who are the other members?"

The commissioner gazes sadly out his window.

"It's just you."

They are silent awhile.

"Anyhow, your first mission is to scatter your organs around the globe. You can't be easily killed when you have no apparent weakness."

"Good thinking. However, thou ain't the boss of me."

The commissioner ignores this statement aggressively.

"I already took the liberty of framing your heart and putting it up on my wall."

"When did you do that, Jim?"

The commissioner is silent. Minutes pass. Outside birds chirp gaily, children go skipping along the boiling hot pavement, car horns bleat at old people who yelp in joyous surprise. The zeppelins glide slow and proud. Only the occasional flying, monstrous mixture of bat and man breaks the serenity of the scene. The streets are full of life and every man-child has a blissful smile on its face; the bums go unnoticed.

"The sewers beneath the Vatican will house your left lung. A tap-dancing school downtown will hide your spleen. Wait, never mind, I'll just email you the details. Dismissed, angels. And good morning."

"Good morning, Jim."

The Catwoman heads out, but his eyes catch something out of their corners. He holds a pair of cold, blue, frilly underwear.

"No way! Used and autographed Mr. Freeze panties! Where did you get this?"

The commissioner coughs and stares hard at the heart on the wall.

"My… daughter is a huge fan. And she wanted me to have them."

"I don't understand."

But it is too late for explanations. The commissioner seems to have fallen asleep.

* * *

"Lights out, girls."

A hush falls over the dorm room. But soon, the ugly sound of rebellion soils the silence in the form of a giggle. Some words are shared. Some ghost stories told, etc, etc. Then, as the danger of rightful authority putting an end to this hellish chicanery grows ever more distant in the minds of the dissenters, a flashlight is turned on. It goes round the room, illuminating face after dreadful face. But then...it alights upon a mysterious form, something which does not belong in this lair of general awfulness and anguish. Chains. A naked back. Whip marks. The stranger speaks.

"What happened to the slaughterhouse?"

The room is filled with shrieks.

* * *

The jewelry shop is mysteriously open. Magpie skips blowing anyone up with dynamite and slips straight inside. There doesn't seem to be a single guard around. Nor, as she peers around the glass cases, does there seem to be a single valuable shiny around. Suddenly a sound grabs her attention.

CRACK!

Her head turns and she becomes unwilling witness to an unbearable occurrence in a corner of the store. Despite her best efforts she notices the chains, the naked back, the smell of sweat. Magpie's face screws up in abhorrence and bewilderment.

CRACK!

The Riddler arches his back, struggling feebly against his restraints.

"Hiss! Jewels! Money!"

CRACK!

Magpie tries to cover her eyes. Batman pulls back, his muscles moving obscenely under the tight constraints of the Catwoman's costume.

"Where's the tuna?!"

CRACK!

The Riddler bites his lip.

"WHERE IS IT?!"

CRACK!

"Please, Batman!" Magpie can take no more. "Please stop!"

The Batman ceases his whipping, turns to her with a petulant yet meaningful glare.

"It's Catwoman now."

She blubbers helplessly.

"But…but why?"

The new Catwoman shrugs.

"Isn't this what she normally does?"

Magpie tries to stop the flow of horrified tears as she takes subtle steps backwards.

"I…wha….no?"

The Catwoman curls up his whip swiftly, with an almost embarrassed air. Thankfully, the cat ears dispel all thoughts of absurdity.

"Oh."

* * *

"I wonder when Godot's gonna show."

The jiggling duo's deadly stationary jogging at the side of the road is brought to an end by a grim voice.

"Stop right there!"

The Tweedles' rotund forms come to an abrupt stop and their mouths hang agape.

"Oh, no! It's…it's…um…"

The Batman hurtles forward, her fist connecting with one double chin, sending it rippling. She bellows mightily.

"I am the law!"

They hurtle backwards, moaning with pain and landing in suggestive positions. Their hurt bedroom eyes gaze at her with vulnerable mysteriousness.

"You wouldn't hurt defenseless gentlemen, would you?"

They bat their eyelashes at her. She feels a bit strange. She is gripped with indecision and awkwardness.

"Well, I…guess not."

They get to their feet gracefully, wiping dust off their tweed jackets. The jewelry store which the road runs through is empty.

"Then I guess you won't mind if we take just…one…little…diamond."

He seductively eats a chocolate-covered strawberry as he snatches the diamond, but it is for naught. She overcomes their manly wiles and swoops into the fray like a true bat out of hell.

"In your dreams, pal!"

The butcher stops his work.

"I used to have real dreams, back when I was a kid."

He puts his knife on the table loudly, stares vacantly out the window, at the rain that lashes down outside.

"All I dream about now is guts."

The Tweedles look at each other.

"Why were we robbing a butcher?"

"We were robbing a jeweler, I'm pretty sure."

The butcher's face screws up and he punches the slab of meat on his table, denting it.

"You don't understand! It's all I dream about! Guts on the beach, guts at my grandma's house, guts on the train. They're everywhere. Pigs guts."

He steps forth wearily, picking up and cradling the Tweeds against his messy apron.

"But I keep going. I do what I have to. It's not about me anymore. I have to provide for my family."

He puts first one, then another, on the meat hooks. The shrieks echo through the lonely workspace of the butcher. It's cold in here, damn cold.

"I just hope they'll be happy. Hope they can find what I couldn't. Happiness."

He cuts Tweedledum open.

"Aaaah! Oh god, oh god, it hurts! Dee, help me!"

Tweedledee looks vacantly at his cousin and intones coldly.

"Dum, I've never…never told you how much you mean to me."

Tweedledum is beyond hearing. His head rolls in incessant circles as he twitches on the hook.

"Kill me, pleasekillmepleaseplease!"

The Batman creeps closer, inspecting the wound with a slack jaw.

"Whoah."

It's raining inside Tweedledum's tummy. They all stare mesmerized, except for the butcher, who pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

"Every time. Every single, goddamned time."

Tweedledee looks up, bewildered.

"Where the hell is Godot?"

No-one answers. Tweedledum, having finally calmed down, raises an eyebrow quizzically.

"How long have you been there?"

The Riddler strains in his bonds, just barely manages to look at them over his shoulder.

"I'm not sure."

Tweedledee joins in.

"Why are you suspended in chains? What happened to you?"

The Riddler manages a shrug.

"I'm not really sure about that eith-"

CRACK!

The Batman has raised her trusty Bat-whip and set to work.

CRACK!

The Riddler screams out as the whip tears into him.

"Why do I love this?"

CRACK!

"Raargh! Justice!"

CRACK!

"This isn't a game, Riddler! Where's the bomb?"

CRACK!

"WHERE IS IT?"

CRACK!

The Tweedles shudder.

"Batman? What are you doing?"

The Batman momentarily desists, her chest heaving. She wipes her forehead, looks at them with bemusement.

"Isn't this what he normally does?"

The Tweedles share a bewildered look.

"Uh…no?"

The Batman curls up her whip and looks away, whistling and tapping her foot on the floor. The Tweedles almost forget what just happened. Dum breathes easier, even lets out a little chuckle.

"I think Batman's way too repressed for that."

Dee nods.

"Too true."

There is a low hiss and the sound of rusty metal clanking.

"Alright, people, time to go. This is the last stop."

The bus driver gives them a kindly smile. The butcher wastes no time getting out of there. Tweedledee looks through the bus with some confusion.

"Wasn't there someone else here? With whip marks on his back?"

The bus driver shakes his sorrowful head.

"Nope. Just you."

Tweedledum looks up at him with hope in his eyes.

"Have you seen Godot?"

The bus driver frowns.

"No. Now get out."

The two step into the foggy night. They are all alone on the highway, with nothing but ominous trees in sight. The cousins share a look.

"At least we got Batman off our tails."

Falser words were never spoken.

"Justice never sleeps!"

The Batman swoops down, the grim determination in her eyes nearly enough to kill them on the spot. Just as she initiates the pummeling, however, she gives a great yawn and spies a creaky old bed further up the road. Tweedledum deeply regrets disguising himself as a cuddly panda as he is dragged off toward the comfortable-looking horizontal elevated zone of resting.

"Justice needs a nap."

Tweedledum lies shivering in the strong arms of the loudly snoring Batman. There is only occasional respite from the snoring, when the Batman murmurs in her sleep: "My parents are dead."

Tweedledee sits beside the bed with terror in his eyes, though he tries to conceal it. Seeing his cousin's teary eyes is almost too much. Dum sobs.

"If only Godot where here."

Dee reaches out and grasps his cousin's hand firmly. He speaks with great conviction.

"He'll be here. He'll come."


	21. The Horrid Hunters

Down darkened corridors, up steep winding stairways, through dimly lit halls. Voices can be heard through a half-open doorway. A step closer and a pair of bat-ears can be seen through the crack. A gravelly voice claims to be the night. Two knocks and the visitor enters.

"Good morning, Mr. Batman..."

But there is no Batman here. Only the late Martha Wayne, wearing an extravagant dress.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, ma'am. I've got a summons for a Mr. Batman. You don't happen to know where he is?"

Martha shakes her head.

"No, I haven't a clue."

The summoner adjusts his glasses.

"Very well." He hesitates. "Forgive me, but somehow I was under the impression you were no longer with us."

Martha blinks, fidgets.

"You're quite right. Allow me to rectify this mistake."

At the end her voice cracks and becomes very deep indeed. She clambers through a window and swings out into the night, her dress flapping in the wind. The clever summoner narrows his eyes. He knows when something's up.

* * *

"We now go live to the White House, where president Zsasz is preparing to enter the time machine."

There is a moment of tense silence.

"And it seems the president is stepping in now."

With a science-y zap the president disappears. There is a moment of tense silence. Then the president reappears.

"And he's back! My fellow Zsaszlanders, this is an historic day. And it seems the president is already starting the press conference."

The reporter shuts up. Zsasz smiles down at the people gathered on his mighty lawn. A hand rises timidly.

"Mr. President, how did you like the past? What were you doing?"

The president still smiles.

"It was charming, and I verified the fact that the founding father of this great country, Victor Zsasz, was in fact just as great as rumored."

Applause.

* * *

In the street stands a Batman, chatting up a lady.

"Ah, finally! Mr. Batman! Mr. Batman?"

At the sound of his voice, the Batman flicks up the lady's dress and disappears mysteriously.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but did you see where Batman went? You see, I have a summons for him."

She seems very frightened by this, as her eyes bulge and her breath comes out in quick gasps.

"No, I'm afraid he left quite suddenly."

She fidgets as the summoner puzzles over the situation. Then she moans, and he narrows his eyes.

"Excuse me, ma'am, have you become pregnant?"

She nods curtly.

"A-ah-y-ye-es, I h-h-have."

Her belly adjusts, then, the figure within spreading so that her whole body expands just a little bit. She bids him good day and sets off at a clumsy walk. The summoner stares after her, his trained eyes taking little more than a minute to notice the two little skin-covered horns that seem to have grown out of her head. Shivering with revelation he runs after her.

"Mr. Batman! I must insist you speak with me!"

The woman's mouth yawns open and a masked face protrudes from it, snarling with rage.

"God damn it, man! Why won't you leave me alone?"

"Mr. Batman, I have a summons for you, which you simply must receive."

The Batman removes his mask.

"But I'm not Batman. I'm Bruce Wayne in a Halloween costume."

"Oh. And who is this lady?"

"She's a good friend. We're very close."

"I see."

"And now I reiterate: Good day to you!"

Once more they stumble along. Before long, however, they turn around. Bruce Wayne's face once more emerges.

"Say, what is this summons about?"

"Child endangerment."

"Oh, that is just bullshit! The world's a dangerous place, you can get killed just crossing the street!"

"Studies indicate that the chance of death is increased dramatically during attacks on armed criminals."

"And just how many 'children' has the Batman supposedly 'gotten killed'?"

"Well, the evidence is vague, but somewhere between one and three."

Bruce Wayne harrumphs and retreats back into his friend. They set off at a leisurely pace. The clever summoner stares after them with narrowed eyes, scratching his chin.

* * *

1749

A portly man stands in a storm with an excited look on his face. He is flying a kite. But his look of excited curiosity soon retreats in favor of utter amazement. Something gigantic swoops down from the clouds, brandishing a sharp knife and sharper eyebrows.

9th of July, 1755

The shouts of men and beasts were irritatingly loud, the trees offered but little cover.

"Hello, George."

Much French was spoken and many men died. Yet there was one casualty that greatly puzzled those that surveyed the field once the battle was over: A man with a single stab wound sat before a piano, surrounded by fallen soldiers. Someone had taken the time to prop him up so that it looked as if he were playing. The French puzzled over this a while, but eventually decided it was fashionable but nothing more.

1770

There came a knock at the Monticello manor. Witnesses had a hard time of explaining what exactly entered upon the opening of the door. The matter was discussed for months on end, but ultimately it fell to theologians to close the case. They ruled the lord of the manor's death the result of an infernal attack, and that was that.

* * *

A Batman stands over a mangled corpse, brooding.

"I have you now, Batman!"

Triumphantly the mangled corpse springs up, revealing itself to be none other than the summoner!

"There is no Batman here."

Batman is right. Suddenly there is only an empty cape and cowl fluttering to the floor and a snake crawling along the floor. The summoner glances this way and that. His investigation is cut short by the feeling of a snake slithering up his leg. He shakes it frantically, to no avail.

"He-help!"

He runs out onto the street, waving his arms.

"Help! Help!"

A hero dressed for the disco swings down from the rooftops. The summoner wastes no time running over to him.

"Help! There's a snake in my pants!"

The hero looks him over appraisingly, noticing the mighty bulge.

"Oh, I'll just bet there is." He turns around and does a little fist bump, whispering to himself. "Good thing I brought out the old lucky outfit."

He grabs the summoner by the waist.

"Hold on tight, I've got a place nearby!"

The summoner looks at him with hopeful eyes.

"A snake-charming place?"

The hero laughs.

"Sure, you could call it that."

* * *

Scarecrow gets into a barroom brawl and finds himself equipped with the power to tear anything he wants into pieces. He screams with utter abandon at the confused patrons, but focusing on the man he is brawling with.

"I am the scum of the earth! I am the thing you want to forget! The thing that looks back at you in the mirror! The thing you dream of! The thing you can't close your eyes to! I'm always watching, and I hate you even more than I do myself! We are one and I am hate! I am the shit-stained, sin-covered receptacle of every petty lust and every uttered curse! I am the one who reaches out a sweaty hand…"

He dips his hand deep into the man's chest.

"…and pulls you apart from the inside!"

He rips out his hand, shattering the person into fleshy bits sticking to the walls.

"I am both sadist and masochist, the mercy and the pain! I will tear everyone to shreds!"

He sways and shivers, moving as something un-belonging of this world, something best left buried and well forgotten. His bloody, bleeding hand reaches shivering into the air and distinctly, impossibly, takes hold.

"I will tear everything to shreds!"

He shivers, shakes, shudders and convulses, bloats and bulges.

"I am fear, come scream with me."

The whole is rent asunder with screaming; he rips apart reality in the culmination of every sufferer's senseless, howling truth.

"Sheesh, relax, Doctah C. It all ain't goin' nowhere."

Harley puffs on a majestic cigar, leaning back in her oversized armchair.

"Nuthin' changes nuthin'."

The whole goes chugging, chugging, chugging right along, each sentence as true as the last, truth being an ever-elusive and insincere concept.

"For what is there to do but laugh?"

She clasps her hands and looks sweetly out into the darkness. The Joker flattens and expands as his hollow voice rings out in mechanic laughter.

"Pish posh."

The Penguin swirls the red in his glass.

"The purest feeling of modern man beats in your chests, claws at your conscious, bubbles from your mouths. Moan, froth, beg; postulate yourselves before me as I show you what we are."

The dragon drags its iron scales along the cement floor and the masses follow crawling.

"To live is to eat, existence is naught but the urge, the lust, the uncontrollable desire to consume. Grow ceaselessly till the cancer eats everything up and your sense of worthlessness with it. Envy me, for I am avarice."

"It is a carefully constructed conundrum, purposefully perplex and yet utterly meaningless."

The Riddler sits calmly in a chair before a polished table in a flawless hall, every surface glinting with the image and afterimage of that one true, beautiful invariable: The divinity of his self.

"I can do anything, but as everything is meaningless, I will do nothing, resorting to idle play to escape this prison, which I will forever be returned to, by forces beyond my control, most notably myself."

Outer perfection breaks before inner imperfection, releasing broken emotion through flawless expression.

"Mine is the greatest pain, terror and despair in the universe; something every desire, fear, thought and sense of man must succumb to before the final release which is truly nothing but the culmination and the purest form of this thing called: Boredom."

The Batman stops puffing and carefully sets the hookah aside. His hands rise slowly to his temples and he feels himself sinking into the smooth pillow below his butt.

"Whoah. "

He blinks stupidly at his guests.

"Can I see the dragon penguin again?"


	22. Some Time Ago

A tennis racket meets flesh with a soft thwack. A muscular arm protected by spiky gauntlets rises and falls with another thwack. The Penguin looks on bewildered as he is struck repeatedly.

"I find myself frightfully aroused, for reasons inexplicable to me. You were correct, and so the money is yours."

"They call me the kinkiest man alive for no reason."

"But I believe there is a reason."

The Penguin's hands rest on the Catwoman's chest, as they reach no higher, and he stares into the vigilante's eyes.

"A very good reason indeed."

The Catwoman picks him up and swings him in circles, bawling happily. The Penguin giggles like the cutest fatherly figure you ever did see.

* * *

The wind blows fierce up here, sending the frightened man's robe swinging this way and that.

"Tell me!"

The Frenchman does not seem to understand, blubbering helplessly as the Batman dangles him from atop Notre Dame.

"How did you know?"

Some pesky gargoyles are losing their cool all around him, doing some musical number or other. He draws on his considerable training to block them out.

"How could you know everything about me? How could you know about Zsasz? Why did only this prophecy come true?"

The hyperventilating Frenchman shakes his hands frantically.

"Tell me, Nostradamus!"

Finally he relents. The Batranslator makes short work of his words.

"Please, stop! Eet was no prophecy! Eet was just…just a fanfic! I swear to you, Batman."

"Swear to…! Oh. Sorry. But why did you do it?"

"I…I was bored. I am ze sorry!"

The Batman yells at him quickly before disappearing into the night, never to be heard from in 16th century France again.

* * *

"That's a story from a long, long time ago. Yet I remember it clearly."

Dick looks up from his book.

"I didn't say anything."

Still everything turns a cozy sepia color.

"Oh, god, Bruce, my eyes! What just happened?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's quite normal. I just initiated a flashback. Usually they come in right away, but sometimes you have to wait for this wavy visual…ah, there we go."

Dick throws up as everything turns wavy.

"It was a beautiful, sepia colored afternoon. I was training with my master."

The sepia sun is strong as it shines down on the young man and his old master.

"But master, I don't understand. Why do I have to hit the water repeatedly?"

"Just do it, Bruce."

His hand alights upon Ra's' shoulder.

"My hand did that, and then I said:"

"What did the water ever do to me?"

The beard quivers.

"It killed your parents, Bruce."

With a feral scream the man who would be bat attacks the water with unfathomable ferocity.

"Your narration is confusing, Bruce, and seems to hold very little of value. What am I supposed to be taking from this?"

"Everyone's a critic." A light sob chokes his words. "Everyone. Anyway."

Ra's clears his throat as footsteps sound lightly on the ground.

"Ah, Bruce, stop what you are doing. There is someone I'd like you to meet."

"Hey, Bruce, check this out."

"Quiet, Dick, I'm telling a story."

Bruce turns around and his face is struck with horror.

"What the hell is that?"

The old man looks hurt.

"This is my daughter, Bruce. I'm introducing you to my daughter. What is wrong with you?"

"What? No, I'm sorry, I wasn't talking to you. Dick, what the hell is that?"

"Weren't talking to me? What does that even mean?"

The old man looks very hurt, and confused.

"It's my disco outfit, Bruce, you've seen it before. I had it on the other day, met the sweetest guy. He had some weird things to say about you."

"Just shut up a moment, Dick!"

"I have not been so offended for a long time. I saw you throwing furtive glances and I thought…but no, now I feel rather silly and very betrayed."

"Please don't, it was a misunderstanding."

"Alright then! Guess I'll go on talking about my disco outfit."

"Agh, no! Nooooo!"

The flashback crumbles completely and merges with the present in a devastating explosion of non-events. The Flash stops running for a second.

"Did I just do the thing again?"

Bruce nods, rubbing his aching head.

"Yes, Barry. You are a horrible, horrible man."

The Flash buries his face in his hands and runs away.

"Why were you so mean to Mr. Allen?"

Bruce sighs.

"Long story short: Barry is now the greatest villain in this universe."

"Really?"

"Yep. They're making a movie about it and everything."

"Who's making a movie?"

"Never mind that, Dick, and help me with this."

With the help of his trusty sidekick, Batman is finally fully strapped into his corset.

"Wait, when did you put that on?"

"I don't know, Dick. I don't know anything anymore. But anyway, Ra's, I want to apologize. To make it up for you I'm taking you for a night on the town."

The old man is confused now, but no longer hurt.

"In all my hundreds of years I have never witnessed anything stranger. But why not?"

Master and student traipse away happily. Talia stares after them with pure envy in her eyes.

* * *

The Batman yawns in her seat, lazily inspecting the substantial amount of loot she has plundered in her new career. Someone sighs in the air above her. She looks up with bewildered eyes. Superman lies on the air, gliding slowly with his feet tucked up and his head resting on his hands.

"Why don't we do anything fun anymore, Batman?"

She blinks stupidly before shrugging in defeat. Superman sighs again, louder this time.

"Remember that time we watched the space worms over at my place?"

"What?"

Superman shakes his head sadly, a solitary tear forming in the corner of his eye.

"They lived…only to die."

There is a short silence.

"Superman? Don't you notice something different about me?"

The most powerful creature on earth spares her a quick glance and shrugs.

"Eh, you're a woman. I've seen you turn into a buzzsaw, Bruce, this is nothing special."

They stay silent awhile. Superman seems to be hovering ever closer. His eyes narrow.

"Hey, when's the last time you baked me a giant cake?"

She looks him square in the eye.

"Look, I'm…I'm not actually Batman."

Superman weeps then.

* * *

AN: Batman is not called Catwoman in 16th century France because their arrangement only applies to their current lifetime, excluding all time travel.


	23. Love is on the Ground

He lovingly runs his finger over the soft pink. Heslips one finger in, then another, and another. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself. Then, with a ferocious effort, he plunges forward. The whole place is silent, apart from the faint rumble of his unstoppable missile rolling forward. Bang!

"O-o-ooohoh! You really nailed it, man."

He smiles, then, and his eyebrows seem to almost glow with pleasure.

"Mr. President!"

The ecstacy is washed off of everyone's faces. It is the Batman, that worst of drags. Though he does look rather sweet when he struts his stuff on the catwalk. But that is a tale for another time.

"What are you doing here?"

Zsasz' (say it!) shoulders sag, and an unearthly calm wafts out from him.

"I am bowling."

The Batman utilizes every ounce of his mask's expressive powers.

"The country...no, the free world needs you!"

The former president wipes his brow, buttons his pink shirt down a bit, to the collected gasps of onlookers.

"I'm sorry, Batman. I left all that behind me."

Suddenly, Bruce is a scared little boy, who has just seen his parents shot in front of him, again. His lower lip trembles.

"What?"

The former president takes a seat, pats the empty space beside him. The Batman parks his butt. The ex-president stares wistfully at the sunset, which is not visible inside the bowling alley.

"My son, do you know with what little understanding this world is ruled?"

The Batman stares at him with hero-worship evident in his eyes, though they are hidden behind lenses.

"No?"

The maskless man sighs.

"Well, whatever. The gist of it is…I saw too much. In my journeys through time, heaven and hell, plus a few dimensions, the mess of religious influences doing the polka on the membrane of the human psyche, the…" a shudder passes through him here, "…amoeba world, all the beauty pageants and that one Greek wrestling festival…"

He sighs.

"I completely forgot what I was talking about. But the point is I realized something. Probably when I went back in time and soared as king of the sky, side by side with my fellow pterodactyls and…"

He falls quiet a while.

"Anyway. Something hit me. As I tumbled down, the ground growing ever closer, I came to see the futility of life. This was all a misunderstanding however, as I came to realize as I hit the earth rolled some five hundred feet, rooting up all sorts of plant-life and hastily arranged land-mines. It is not life that is pointless, Bruce. It is everything."

He squeezes the Batman's shoulder, the latter squees.

"It doesn't matter how much life I snuff out. There is always some sucker, somewhere, sometime, still breathing. And at the same time, they are all both unborn and dead already, no matter how you look at it. So I gave up my wings. And I gave up my tail. I gave up my vision, my omnipotence, my sacred migraines. Having become god, all I wanted was to escape the harsh reality and become one of you suckers, toiling around helplessly and releasing all sorts of gaseous emissions. That's what life is all about, Bruce. Being stupid, and enjoying it."

The Batman shudders.

"What are you saying, Mr. President?"

The eyebrows droop, the president stares at his shoes.

"I'm saying I'm done, Bruce. I'm fried. Burnt out. I'm saying I…I've killed enough."

Shaking trembling sobbing the Batman jumps to his wobbly feet swinging them accusatory fingers around all willy-nilly and caring much too deeply about nothing at all, like, you know, happens to great men.

"No!"

Like an overpaid soap-opera actor playing a character coming back from hell for the second time he works his magic.

"No! Nooooooooooo! Nooo-ooo-wo-oh-oah-oooah!"

Spent, he stands hunched over, sweating, gasping, just barely managing to light a cigarette and taking a deep drag and blowing smoke rings and then his insignia.

"This is supposed to be my story, Zsasz. I am the only one who gets character development. The kind that sticks, anyway. But even then it's a strict formula we follow. I repeat the same cycles over and over again. This is how it has always been. And now you've gone and ruined it."

He sobs, uncomfortably close to Zsasz' face.

"It's a stagnant medium! Stagnant, you monster!" The tears flow freely and we are… lapping… that shit up. Slurp, slurp. Batman enjoys himself immensely. "You can't just go and…and, and…change things."

He turns away, then, cool as ice.

"Goodbye, Victor."

He walks away. A hand alights upon his shoulder. It is the president. His wise little eyes, hidden behind a luscious bush of eyebrows, twinkle with fatherly pride.

"One more thing, Bruce. Don't eat pudding before going to sleep. It will give you nightmares."

The Batman's eyes are vibrant pools of emotion.

"I won't, Victor. I won't."

He walks away. There ain't a dry eye in sight. He walks away.

* * *

The Batman kicks in the door, her whole body shaking as she enters the Riddler's lair.

"Why didn't you tell me this would be such a hassle, you moron?"

She enters his boudoir and finds herself speechless.

"What…the…Bat-expletive."

Almost speechless.

"Brilliant, isn't it?"

The Riddler's velvety voice sends all sorts of shivers up her spine.

"?"

He laughs seductively, brimming with confidence.

"No more of that, my dear new adversary. I've adopted a new approach."

He glides along the floor on his high heels.

"But…"

After a short and sexy sashay he reaches a heavy metal door, using his supple muscles to throw it open, twisting and posing as he does it.

"As there is a new Batman in town, of the opposite sex than the original, and there is no seductive villain to take your place…"

There is no answer from the Batman. Her eyes refuse to follow commands, making her too busy to speak. Ergo, the Riddler continues.

"I thought I'd grab the opportunity. What do you think?"

Her eyes twitch and the foam flows freely.

"It…it…it…it's certainly tight."

His butt jiggles.

"But is it villainous? Do I seem untrustworthy to you? Naughty?"

Her eyes show only white. Gnashing her teeth she mechanically pulls out her whip.

"Yes. Very…naughty."

He runs up the stairs with a bouncy spring in his step.

"Teeheehee," his laughter rumbles throughout the hallway as she rushes after him.

She pops up onto the roof just in time to see his very naughty form reach the edge.

"Chase me! Chase me across the rooftops! Cha-"

He trips on his high heels and tumbles down into the alley. She falls back on her ass, unable to hear anything but her own rampant heartbeat. She strips out of the Batman costume, temporarily rejecting this celibately perverted lifestyle.

"I can't take it."


	24. Speak harshly, love

In the kitchen, Bruce raises his hand, halting the proceedings. He kneels, staring straight at the pig's face.

"What is it, Bruce?"

He answers without moving his eyes off the exquisite creature.

"I can see in its eyes an infinite sadness."

Stephanie and Timothy share a confused look.

"It isn't sad, Bruce. It's dead."

He closes his eyes, giving a faint smile as he grabs the little pig's legs.

"Dead, you say?"

Suddenly he springs into action, wide eyes shining with ferocity as he shakes the pig in front of his chest.

"Nay, I tell you! It lives!"

It is as if the little thing were dancing.

"It lives!"

* * *

Elsewhere, down in the cave, the former Catwoman sits skulking. Tremendously powerful computers whir uselessly around her, from huge screens her terrifying foes stare down. Yet she finds it nigh impossible to care.

"What is wrong with me? Why can't I do this?"

She knocks some stuff over dramatically.

"Can my character not develop? Won't somebody tell or show me?"

From the darkness steps a Batgirl with a stitched mouth and an accusing finger.

"Not Batman."

She huffs.

"Am too."

The cave is silent, then, for just a moment.

"No."

She bites her lip.

"You're right. I'm not. I can't handle all this debauchery and depravity. I'm starting to fear this lifestyle is too perverted for me."

She lets out a deep breath. Then she looks meaningfully at the covered eyes of the Batgirl.

"Will you help me? Will you be my sidekick?"

The Batgirl shrugs.

"Okay. Better than Limbo."

She smiles feverishly.

"Great! First things first. What do I do against something like that?"

On the screen appears the Riddler in his tantalizing new costume. The Batgirl stares at the shiny spandex and bounteous buttocks.

"Beat up?"

The Batman shakes her head.

"I can't! Don't you see? It's too much! I lose control. All I want to do is whip it."

Her sidekick stares at her, then disappears into the darkness. Moments later she returns with a pole of unparalleled length.

"Beat with stick."

* * *

"Master Bruce, would you like some pudding before bed?"

The master's shoulders go stiff.

"What was that, Alfred?"

The butler clears his throat.

"I offered you pudding."

The master turns around, horror and realization dawning on his face.

"Who…are you?"

The butler smiles.

"Figured it out, have you?"

Bruce backs away.

"I always knew there was someone plotting against me. I just never realized it was someone in my own household."

The butler shakes with laughter.

"Very well! As a reward for your success, I will show you the truth. I have been plotting against you, but I am not Alfred. For you see, I am…"

The butler's face is ripped off. Bruce's face screws up in abject horror.

"Mother?"

She laughs.

"Yes, it is I. You see, it was not your mother who was shot down in that alley all those years ago. It was Alfred."

Bruce's face screws up even more.

"What?"

She looks off to the side, lost in sweet remembrance.

"Yes, we often swapped roles. It really spiced up the marriage. Alfred was always a much more proficient lover than he was a butler. Ah, the things the three of us got up to. Wine-colored nights warmed by the flesh, deep velvet nights when we were one, we will live until we die, hold me warm against your…"

She returns to the moment, only to find her son has run off. He runs sobbing down the hallway, till a familiar figure appears up ahead. A smile breaks through, though tears still stain it. He hugs the warm figure fiercely.

"Oh, Joker, you're the only one I can trust."

But the Joker does not answer. He drops dead to the floor, a knife sticking out of his back.

"Who could have done this?"

Looking up and seeing his mother's ridiculously innocent demeanor he comes to the conclusion that the butler probably did it.

* * *

Stealthily waits Nightwing, his firm cheeks pressed against the respectable old wall. From around the corner he can hear a familiar shuffling by the door to Bruce's bedroom, prompting him to jump out of waiting.

"Hey, Jason?"

The Red Hood freezes awkwardly.

"Yeah?" He tries in vain to kick the decapitated heads out of sight. "What?"

Nightwing smiles patiently.

"It's alright, Jason. We're all starved for love. We just have different ways of begging for it."

Jason scratches the back of his unwieldy helmet nonchalantly.

"That's not…not it at all. These are meant as a threat. To scare him."

Dick nods.

"I'm sure he's very scared. But I wanted to ask you a favor. The old man's been acting a bit strange recently. I thought maybe you could try talking to him."

Through the red helmet burn Jason's hopeful eyes.

"You think he'd listen to me?"

He raises a trembling hand to his heart. Dick nods.

"I think there's a very slim chance of it, yes."

Up jumps the Red Hood, braying with happiness.

Mere moments later he has entered Bruce's darkened study and is in the process of timidly walking up to him where he's gluing together a toy airplane.

"Hey, Dad? Can I…can we talk?"

"Grunt."

Dozen curious eyes stare from the doorway. Jason tries again.

"No, I really need a word with you."

This time Bruce actually grunts, rather than say it. Jason removes his helmet, putting it down on the table with a clatter.

"Listen to me!"

Bruce does no such thing.

"For once in your life!"

He grabs the airplane, throwing it full force at the wall. Bruce pays the shattered thing no mind, inspecting his nails instead.

"I'm busy, Jason. I am the night."

A slight change comes upon Jason then. His whole body starts to shiver and froth issues from his clenched teeth. Suddenly there is a knife in his enraged hand. The onlookers in the doorway sense trouble. The knife digs into Bruce's neck. Jason's eyes shift, showing only white.

"Kill…daddy?"

Out comes the knife, followed by a healthy spray.

"Kill daddy."

Into the shoulder it sticks.

"Kill daddy."

Out it comes, before biting into the arm and prying the bicep partially loose.

"Kill daddy!"

Bruce stands up, the knife goes into the kidney.

"Kill daddy!"

Turning around, he takes it in the groin.

"KILL DADDY!"

Palm, thigh, cheek, chest, Achilles tendon.

"KILL!"

Things turn all sorts of messy.

"DADDY! Kill daddy! Kill daddy! Kill daddy! Daddy. Kill."

Bruce doesn't look good at all.

"Kill…"

He falls limp to the floor in a pool of crimson and bits of himself.

"Daddy?"

Jason collapses to his knees and buries his head in his hands, breathing with great difficulty.

"Sorry, gang, I don't know what came over me."

The onlookers stare with horror at him. This horror is greatly increased as the master of the house quietly shambles off the floor into a sitting position. Jason does not notice.

"So typical. I try to fix things but end up making them even worse. So clumsy."

A fingerless hand falls on his shoulder.

"No, my son. That was beautiful."

A naked cheekbone presses against his face.

"I'm so proud of you, son. My little son."

Another hand, this one with fingers, starts playing with his hair.

"My darling boy. My sweet boy. Daddy's little angel."

A muffled wailing issues forth from Jason's throat.

"Pretty boy, good boy, darling boy."


	25. Apocalypse Later

Bruce's messy body boldly caresses his son, his murderer.

"Such a good boy, Jason. Such a clever boy."

Sobbeth the son.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so…"

Bruce picks up one of his fingers and brings it to his child's lips.

"Shush."

He gathers the little feller into his arms, stands up and starts shaking him in the air. And lo, it is as if the little thing were dancing.

"Are you feeling alright now, sir?"

Bruce drops his son onto the floor and smiles.

"Yes, thank you, Alfred." Even through the blood it is clear his eyebrows are wagging. "If that is indeed who you are."

The butler seems indignant.

"But of course, sir!"

Again the master smiles, his hacked flesh slowly mending, because he's Batman.

"And mother?"

"Dead as a doornail, sir."

Bruce clasps his hands.

"Fantastic."

A moment passes in silence. The master seems to ponder the situation, before throwing his hands up in triumph.

"Praise the Lord!"

Dick taps his leg impatiently.

"Gee, Bruce, you really think God cares about hearing people blather about his creation?"

The now-mended face scrunches up in pleasure.

"Yes, Dick. I am almost certain he would update this little shit-stain of a planet more frequently if people spoke out more, praising him constantly and never questioning his decisions."

"Man, what a douche."

"And how, Robin."

* * *

The Penguin is soaking in a bubble bath to end all bubble baths, with scented candles lining the tub and a case of expensive cigarettes at the ready. Atop the foam float all sorts of birds, happy in the company of their benign master. The tub is made of solid gold, and it performs exquisite massage on the royal body of its occupant. "I say, Dominic," he says, "turn on the television." Dominic follows these instructions, turning on said television. It is a lavish thing, with high definition and a superior sound system, the frame being richly adorned and bejeweled. Dominic adjusts the sound. He is a relatively short man, well shaved and mannered, but cursed by a most peculiar body odor. Not that it is truly an odor, mind you, but still such a peculiar smell that people can rarely stop thinking about it, and often identify it afterwards as an "odor." He is sharply dressed in a crisp suit, with a beautiful silk shirt peeking out from under his jacket. This whole ensemble is rather offset by a pair of spongy slippers, meant to save his normal footwear, highly polished Armanis, from the slippery wetness of the rich marble floor. But enough of this. What appeared on the screen was a news anchor, who said the following.

"Good evening, America! In a bizarre turn of events, all the small countries of the world decided to seize the initiative and declared war on the United States earlier today. The vice president urged citizens not to panic, as progress on a Death Star is well under way. In the meantime the masses would simply have to "take one for the team." As usual. The Batman had this to say:"

The camera cuts to a red-eyed but very relaxed Batman, a cigarette burning unheeded betwixt his fingers.

"It's obviously the end of times, people. But that has absolutely no meaning whatsoever. It's all the same. All the same. It will all just start up again tomorrow. So don't worry."

Back to the news anchor.

"In other news, the space time continuum showed signs of decay earlier today as Gothamites were treated to a Mongol invasion. We go live to the city, where the invaders are ransacking the streets."

The news man is right. Mongols ride through the streets, apparently having a heck of a time. Genghis Khan rides in their midst, shouting something angrily.

"But wait, what's this?"

The news man brings our attention to a new arrival. It is the Batman, except not really! The woman earlier known as Catwoman bursts forth, holding up two pairs of boxing gloves. She shouts, issuing a challenge. Genghis shouts something back, which no one understands, as he doesn't speak English for some reason. But they both equip themselves and square off. The news anchor gasps.

"Ladies and gentlemen. It. Is. On."

And it is. The thuds of glove on face action are truly majestic.

* * *

ELSEWHERE, IN A NICER PART OF TOWN.

Here is where the business men dwell, dealing dirty day in, day out. But there is no business to be done today, nor deals to be brokered, no siree. The apocalypse has made its way here also.

HERE, A PALE HORSE RIDES.

It trots down the street calmly, ominously. Business men and their servants shiver in hushed silence, terror mounting at a steady pace as the mount steadily paces toward them.

IT RIDES SLOWLY. SLOW-LY.

"Tell my wife I regret every minute."

"She kno-o-o-ws!"

Such is the speech of the damned.

EVER CLOSER COMES THE PALE HORSE.

The business men are getting frustrated, but their fear lingers.

SWEET JESUS, THAT HORSE IS SLOW.

The big boys of business are getting antsy. Time is money, after all.

GET A MOVE ON, PALE HORSE!

Alas, it is too late. The men in shabby suits have given up and are returning to work.

WAIT, YOU GUYS! IT'S ALMOST HERE! JUST A SECOND. GUYS?

Alas.

ALAS!

The pale horse stands awkwardly in the middle of the street, alone.

AND ITS NAME IS DEATH!

Well, its rider's name is. But he seems to have gotten lost somewhere on the way.

MERE THREE HUNDRED FEET BEHIND THE HORSE LIES ITS RIDER!

Oh, there he is. He seems to have suffered a nasty tumble off his horse. Dem streets can be mighty dangerous, especially to the noggin. He's out cold.

AND HIS NAME IS DEATH!

Let's see what else is going on.

* * *

The two combatants breathe heavy, their faces bruised and battered, their eyes dulled, but their spirit? Burns strong!

"Ladies and gentlemen, this may very well be the fight of the century. This is fraught with terrifying meaning, what happens now may change the face of the…but wait. What is happening?"

Water is happening. The street slowly dissolves into water, the flow increasing steadily. The fight is over. Both combatants stagger away. A rotund mayor with a silly hat, a grey suit and a ribbon around him points ahead, into the distance.

"Up ahead! It's a boat!"

It is indeed. A mighty boat. It floats leisurely toward the mayor.

"Ahoy! Noah! Is that you?"

A man looks down from the side, looking decidedly non-Noahish.

"No, it's me, Utnapishtim."

The mayor's face scrunches up in anger and he points a mighty finger down the street.

"Den git lawst."

The boat sails away. Batman wades through the knee-high water desperately, her eyes peering dully out from her swollen face.

"Adrian!"

She wades onward, throwing confused glances all around yet barely moving.

"Adrian! Adriaaan!"

Someone, somewhere, is no doubt answering very meekly. The swollen face puffs up even bigger as she takes a deep breath.

"Adriaaaaaan!"


	26. Fortune Cookies

The Penguin smiles down at him, over his nose.

"Are you asleep yet?"

His voice is sweet and kind.

"I will not sleep tonight, I think."

Alfred looks with much displeasure at the night-gowned man lying beside him. The Penguin sighs gently, his head propped up on his palm.

"Then I shall lie here with you all night."

Alfred stares exhausted up at the ceiling.

"Very kind of you."

Alfred soon starts snoring loudly. The Penguin wafts away happily.

* * *

In a dark room sit the ones who dictate the world. They are immersed in discussion.

"Alright, guys, we are going bankrupt. What's up with that?"

One of them shrugs.

"I dunno. Maybe we should publish more Batman books?"

Positive murmurs run through the room. Then a voice pipes up.

"Someone once told me our stories were boring. They said our clamping down on creative output and making last-minute changes on a whim were to blame."

A friendly hand rests on a frightened shoulder.

"They lied to you. Don't worry. It was just a joke. A mean, horrible joke. Don't you ever listen to criticism. Okay?"

A small smile, tears wiped off, a cute nod.

"Okay."

Lo! From the darkness there comes a solution.

"Reboot!"

Murmurs, gasps, jovial applause, chanting.

"Reboot! Reboot! Reboot!"

* * *

It was a rainy night in Gotham as the Batman, a swinging bachelor, 24 years of age, stood over the still warm corpse of some poor schmuck. The rain was pouring down all over the place, making things gray and gloomy, much like Batman's soul. Like blood it flowed, dramatically down the cracking buildings and scowling gargoyles, dread and fear looming in every corner not occupied by a Moomin. There was only one thought running through the Batman's mind as he stood in the rain, slowly drenching, before the sorry sight of the dead man whose story had come to an untimely end, whose dreams had been crushed before they even started, so sad. "Does it ever _not_ rain in Gotham?" His next thought came quickly. "Yes. Sometimes it snows."

"Hold it, Batman!"

The Batman is stopped dead in his tracks. It is a familiar foe, with a twist.

"Harvey?"

The strange man shakes his head.

"No! Call me…Flat-Face!" (Pretty fresh, eh? Eh? Buy more comics for further developments-Ed.)

The Batman stares in horrified awe.

"That is just…wrong. What does it even mean? Where does this take your character?"

Flat-Face's shoulders sag.

"I don't know."

The silence is deafening. Harvey tries to lift his spirits.

"You could say I'm of…flat…minds on… the…"

He falls to his knees, hiding his flat face in his hands.

"My god," growls a broken man's voice through hidden lips, undoubtedly flat, "even the puns are gone. What am I doing with my life?"

An over-sized gremlin in strange attire runs onto the panel, breaking up this somewhat somber conversation.

"Nyahahaaha! Say hello to the new and improved Harley Quinn!"

Before Batman can react, there is another villainess upon the scene. It is the White Rabbit, who is in possession of both breasts and buttocks. (Come on! Let's see that wallet, ya cheapskate! How can you not love this?-Ed.)

The White Rabbit is defeated, or something, after a short struggle of some sorts. The case of the dead schmuck still weighs heavy on our _young_ hero's mind, however.

"Freeze, Bat!"

It is Mr. Freeze.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Freeze?"

Mr. Freeze laughs coldly.

"I am returning to the scene of the crime."

The Batman switches on his detective mode, to no avail.

"But why did you kill this man?"

Suddenly, Scarecrow!

"I just wanted to be like my father." (The Scarecrow is a devious villain who uses fear gas to make people scared. –Ed.)

Batman pats him on the back with a friendly smile.

"Well, doesn't that give your character new depth!"

He then fires his grapnel gun into Jonathan's soft chin.

"But I was talking to Mr. Freeze."

Mr. Freeze fires his freeze ray, devastating the background.

"I did it for no reason, Batman! You see, I am no longer a tragic villain. I am now…a stalker!" ( (: -Ed.)

Cut to the rooftop of police headquarters. There is a close up of the chiseled face of Harvey Bullock as he smokes a cigarette in the cold. His gravelly voice cleaves the darkness.

"Life is hell."

* * *

Back in the darkened room, there are voices.

"I just had a great idea, guys. What if we go back to the roots, make Batman a loner again?"

There is nodding in the darkness.

"Yeah, yeah, that's a great idea. Wow, why has nobody thought of this before?"

Another voice pipes up.

"I also am having an idea. What if the Batman were to be all alone once more, through sad happenings of accidents?"

Gasps all around!

"Make Batman go through a personal loss? Holy shit, that is so fresh! Alright! You rock, Starfire!"

The alien's green eyes stare full of friendly hate into the camera.

* * *

Batman stands in the manor, hip, cool and edgy. The kids stand bewildered before him. Stephanie is the first to speak.

"You're how old? How does that even make sense? How old am I, then?"

Batman shakes his head with a sad smile.

"Who?"

Steph looks down, sees she is vanishing. "Oh, fuck no."

Batman puts a hand to his ear.

"Did you hear something?"

Dick shakes his head.

"No, I…wait. Spoiler!"

"What?"

Dick slicks back his hair.

"Nothing, just... I was almost overcome by the urge to spoil that movie you wanted to watch."

Bruce turns ashen-faced, and speaks gravely.

"I'm glad you didn't. As you may know, I have one rule. But every now and then I almost break it, for dramatic effect."

Dick swallows uneasily.

"Golly."

There is an awkward silence. Thankfully, Commissioner Gordon bursts in, looking sickly and holding a hand to his rock hard abs. The dynamic duo watches him with an air of expectation.

"Fortune cookies always fuck me up," he offers in explanation.

* * *

The Penguin glides through the air like a fairy without wings, entering Dick's bedroom. The occupant rolls his eyes.

"What the hell do you want?"

The Penguin smiles patiently, his pajamas positively radiant.

"I am here to help you sleep."

He raises a hand and blows dust in Dick's face. The latter coughs, violently.

"Christ, what is wrong with you?" Dick suffers intense distortions of the face. "Is that…is that cocaine?"

The Penguin still smiles.

"Yes."

Dick peers at the floating figure.

"Why?"

The Penguin blinks calmly, sending sparkling glitter drifting throughout the room.


End file.
